Southern graves, p.1
Southern Graves, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
For Kenny Seay
Also by Stuart Jaffe
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Afterword
Ads
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright Information
Southern Graves
A Max Porter Paranormal Mystery
Stuart Jaffe
For Kenny Seay
one of the nicest people in existence
one of the greatest fans a writer could have
and he plays a mean guitar
Also by Stuart Jaffe
Max Porter Paranormal Mysteries
Southern Bound
Southern Charm
Southern Belle
Southern Gothic
Southern Haunts
Southern Curses
Southern Rites
Southern Craft
Southern Spirit
Southern Flames
Southern Fury
Southern Souls
Southern Blood
Nathan K Thrillers
Immortal Killers
Killing Machine
The Cardinal
Yukon Massacre
The First Battle
Immortal Darkness
A Spy for Eternity
Prisoner
Desert Takedown
Lone Star Standoff
The Parallel Society
The Infinity Caverns
Book on the Isle
Rift Angel
Lost Time
The Malja Chronicles
The Way of the Black Beast
The Way of the Sword and Gun
The Way of the Brother Gods
The Way of the Blade
The Way of the Power
The Way of the Soul
Gillian Boone novels
A Glimpse of Her Soul
Pathway to Spirit
Stand Alone Novels
After The Crash
Real Magic
Founders
Short Story Collection
10 Bits of My Brain
10 More Bits of My Brain
The Bluesman
The Marshall Drummond Case Files: Cabinet 1
The Marshall Drummond Case Files: Cabinet 2
Non-Fiction
How to Write Magical Words: A Writer’s Companion
For more information, please visit www.stuartjaffe.com
Chapter 1
THE LOBBY OF Wake Forest Baptist Hospital’s Neurology Department smelled of fresh paint. The place had been refurbished a few years back and still received a paint job every so often to continue the illusion of a new space. Max Porter drummed his fingers on a chair that had not yet lost all of its cushion, and his wife settled beside him. She sipped a cup of coffee and offered to share a vending bag of chips. Max couldn’t eat.
The problems with his mother had begun quite a while back, but nobody recognized the changes until the last few months. Like many dangerous things, it started small. A few mornings with blurry vision. Nothing to worry about, they thought. Chalked it up to natural aging. Then, there were a couple bad spills which she blamed on clumsiness. But as both events shifted from occasional inconveniences to frequent occurrences, a dark question loomed over them all. It was finally voiced by Sandra. Took Max another week to accept it. And when he finally braved to ask his mother about the severity of her troubles, she broke into tears.
“Did the doctor say how long these tests were going to take?” Sandra asked.
Max picked at his nails. “It’s nothing complicated. I think they’re drawing some blood, but it’s mostly having her perform basic motor functions — following the doc’s finger with her eyes, walking a straight line — that kind of thing.”
“Sounds like a sobriety test.”
His knee bounced. “I wish they had let me go in with her.”
“They would have. It was her request to be alone. You know she doesn’t like to show any weakness. It’s a miracle she allowed you to drive her to the hospital at all, and even then, she didn’t want me in the car. Which, by the way, is a one-off thing. We are not taking separate cars every time she has to visit the hospital.”
Max checked a round clock on the wall, but he didn’t really see it, didn’t bother to process the time. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “I already know the result.”
“You’re not a doctor. Just wait.”
“I’ve been doing the one thing I’m good at — researching all I can about her condition.”
“You don’t even know what that condition is, and doom-research is not productive.”
“It’s not like we have a bunch of cases to work on. The symptoms are pretty clear — falling and blurry vision, she’s told me that she has little pains in her neck like shocks, and sometimes her legs go numb. Isolated, they’re nothing to be alarmed about. Altogether, there’s not much doubt in my mind.”
Sandra leaned her head on his shoulder. “I know. I’ve clicked on the links you sent me. I’ve read the material. But until the doctor says without a doubt that she has multiple sclerosis, we should not jump to any conclusions. There are countless things it could be.”
“None of them good.”
The lobby was large, and the nurses’ counter stretched the entire length — enough to fit ten stations. Max and Sandra were the only people there. The emptiness made him feel worse. He wondered if things ever got so busy that it justified building such a large space.
He rolled his head, trying to release some of the tension from his neck, but to little avail. “I should have seen this coming. When she stopped homeschooling PB, when she said that he needed to start going to high school, I knew something was up.”
“But she was right. PB’s a teenager, now. He needs to be with other kids his own age. Heck, J’s a teenager, too.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Honey, J is going to have his first date this weekend. He’s a teenager.”
“I guess.”
“It’s all good for them. PB is adjusting well. He wasn’t ready for a public school setting when we first became the boys’ guardians, but now, he’s very ready. Pretty soon, I expect both boys will be dating.”
Max shivered. “That’s a frightening thought.”
Flatscreen monitors mounted at angles off the wall displayed the local weather report — the spring rains were coming.
Max glanced over his shoulder at the nurses tapping away on their new computers. “I don’t know how we’re going to afford this.”
“We’ll figure it out. People do it all the time.”
“People go bankrupt all the time, too. This isn’t some expensive surgery that hits the bank balance and is done. We’re going to be dealing with this for the rest of her life. And as she gets older, it’s going to cost more.”
“She has insurance to cover some of it, and she has money of her own, I’m sure. I mean, she’s never asked us for help with her rent or anything. Plus, we’ll get a case soon. We always do.”
“Sure, when times are good, people will come knocking on our door. But with so many people out of work, they don’t seem too interested in having us take care of their ghost problems.”
Sliding up through the floor, the tall figure of Marshall Drummond appeared. The old private investigator from the 1940s tipped his Fedora as he floated closer. “Want me to go on back there and check on how she’s doing?”
“Thanks,” Max said. “I think we’re fine just waiting.”
Drummond looked to Sandra before saying anything more. “I did as you asked — kept an eye on your boys — PB is staying after school to possibly join the chess club.”
“Chess club?” Sandra said.
“Yeah, I thought the same thing. But then, if I remember correctly, he likes to play with Mrs. Porter sometimes.”
Max tried to hide his embarrassment. He had no idea his mother had taught PB to play chess.
Sandra said, “I suppose we should be glad he’s showing any interest in socializing. I just never thought he’d gravitate toward the nerdy clubs.”
“You thought he’d be a football jock?”
“No. Just something in the middle. Maybe audition for a play.”
Drummond snickered. “You’re talking about a kid who spent a few years homeless, taking care of himself on the streets. I doubt he’s interested in bashing heads playing football or wrestling. He’s had too much of the real thing simply to survive. And he doesn’t seem to care about popularity or anything like that. But he’s good looking enough and he’s strong. Nobody’s going to dare tease him for joining the Chess Club. Not more than once, anyway.”
Sandra cocked her head with a smile. “We’re lucky to have you, Uncle Drummond.”
“Hey, hey, don’t start with that Uncle stuff again. I allow J to call me that, and if ever PB starts to see me, I’ll let him call me that, too. But you both are not given permission.”
Unable to stir up a sarcastic comment, Max tapped his knee some more. “Is J home now?”
“That’s sort of why I’m here.”
Max could feel Sandra stiffen. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. J’s fine. Safely home. But, well, you should be prepared for this one — he’s brought a ghost with him.”
“A ghost?” Sandra said.
“Yeah. Old one, too. Not the age of the guy — probably died when he was barely twenty — but his clothes and all suggest he’s from a long time ago.”
“What does he want with J?”
Drummond clicked his tongue. “Other way around. J brought him home and asked me to let you know that this ghost is our new client.”
Chapter 2
SANDRA LEFT WITH DRUMMOND to check on J while Max remained behind to take care of his mother. When she shuffled into the lobby, Mrs. Porter provided no details while dealing with the final paperwork and arranging an appointment for a return visit. She clutched Max’s arm as they walked back to the car, and that small hand holding tight dropped a stone in his gut.
He wanted to ask, but her stern mouth, her trembling chin, and her long gaze told him enough. It had to be what they feared — multiple sclerosis. Just how bad, how long the doctors gave her, how many ways that would impact their lives — all those questions would be discussed eventually. For now, he figured the best he could do was stay quiet and stay close. Be there for his mother.
Leaving the hospital garage, paying for the parking, and heading onto the highway, they continued their near-monastic silence. Mrs. Porter fritted with her nails as she watched the road ahead, though Max doubted she saw much of anything. When his mind finally drifted from his current worries and turned toward the idea that J had become involved in a ghost’s problems, Mrs. Porter spoke. Her soft voice boomed against the stillness. “Do you remember that trip to New York City? You were probably only ten, maybe eleven. I doubt you remember.”
“Sure, I do.” Max fought against the barrage of questions loaded and waiting. Instead, he let her mind go where it needed to go. “Statue of Liberty and some museums and Times Square.”
“That’s right. And I promised to take you to a Broadway show, too.”
“We were going to see a musical, right? But that big discount ticket place was all sold out of the show. Don’t recall what musical it was, though.”
“Barnum. We stood outside in that long line and they were sold out and I was angry. This was to be your first Broadway show, mine too, and I had built it up the whole trip from Michigan, but I couldn’t deliver. We ended up going to a little off-Broadway show. You were very upset.”
“I don’t remember that. Being upset, I mean.”
“You knew we were supposed to see a big Broadway musical, and somehow, that wasn’t going to happen. I don’t know if you could see it on my face at the time or if you were just a smart enough boy — probably a little of both — but you certainly knew to keep your opinions to yourself. Anyway, we went to this other show, not the one we had planned to see — an improv comedy show — and we still had a wonderful time. Maybe a better time than we would’ve had in an oversized theater with a bombastic musical. You even got to meet a few of the actors afterwards because it was such a small venue. They chatted with you, made you laugh, and gave a glimpse backstage.” She grew quiet. Then: “Things never work out the way we plan, but sometimes it works out for the better.”
Max focused on the road, afraid that if he tried to respond, his voice would crack and his tears would flow.
When they arrived at her apartment complex, parked and walked up the stairs, headed down the hall and stopped at her door, she turned around with her bottom lip quivering. “Thank you, dear, but I’d rather be alone.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
His mother looked smaller than usual. Frail. But her eyes blazed with the sternness he had known his whole life. “There’s nothing you can do for me right now. Go home. Take care of your family.”
“You’ve been given bad news. I’m guessing from the look of things, really bad news. Doesn’t seem like leaving you alone is right.”
“Oh, nonsense. I’m an old lady and I received a terrible diagnosis, yes, but have you ever known me to be a quitter? If you’re worried that I might end it all, then you don’t know me too well. If anything, this makes me want to live my life all the more. Fill up the time I have left with every experience possible. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go skydiving tomorrow. But I’ve spent the last several hours in a hospital being asked to perform little tasks like a monkey being trained for the circus. I’m tired. I’d like to have some privacy, some time alone to think.”
“Mom —”
“I wasn’t asking for permission. Go home. Or wherever you want to go, but not here. I’ll call when I’m ready for you.” Mumbling I love you she closed the door.
Max stood in the hallway, caught between ringing the bell and leaving. In the end, he had to respect her wishes. He went home, punishing the steering wheel as he drove, mouthing arguments, and playing out scenarios in his head. Only his mother could make him feel both proud and angry at the same time.
When he entered his small home, Max found Sandra, J, and Drummond sitting in the living room. Well, Drummond floated, but the others sat. Max had a small bookshelf built into the wall opposite the window — nothing fancy or expensive, but enough to give Drummond a new home after their office bookshelf had burned down along with their office. Max made sure that a copy of Moby Dick was among the first books to grace the shelves — hollowed out and containing Drummond’s whiskey-filled hipflask, of course.
Sandra rushed over with a hug. “How bad is it?”
“She’s not telling me. Says she wants to be alone. I don’t know, I suppose I’ll try talking to her again tomorrow. For now, give me something else to think about — tell me about this ghost.”
“Not my tale to tell.” Sandra gestured to J as she returned to their threadbare couch.
Max went to sit next to her but paused. “Is the ghost here?”
Drummond pointed to the back corner. “Right over there.”
“Okay then, I’m listening.” Max eyed the empty corner.
J bounded to his feet, and Max missed the first words because he couldn’t help but notice how much older J looked. The once small, lanky black boy had started to fill out. Not muscular, but fuller. Taller, too. He seemed awkward in his own skin. Sandra had been right — the boy had become a teenager.
“— didn’t matter where I went, everywhere I looked, I saw this guy.” J paced a small circle as he spoke. Just like Max had seen Drummond do many times. Just like he had done himself, too. J went on, “A few days ago, I had enough of it. During lunchtime, we’re allowed to walk around the halls a little bit, so I lured this ghost to one of the quieter sections near the library. I waited until nobody was around, and I looked right at him and demanded he tell me what the heck he wanted. That’s when it all got weird.”
Max looked from Sandra to Drummond. Neither one indicated they knew this much of the story. To Max, Drummond said, “What? We waited for you.”
Sandra said, “J insisted.”
“Oh,” Max said, trying to hide the slim joy creeping onto his lips. It didn’t feel right knowing his mother probably sat in a darkened apartment crying. He gestured to J. “You’ve got the floor. Don’t keep us in suspense. What happened?”
Puffing up a little, J said, “I know you only see Drummond, but I’m like Sandra — I can see all kinds of ghosts. And like Sandra, these ghosts will sometimes talk to me. Drummond and Sandra, they’ve given me time to figure it out, and that’s cool. But this — I don’t know. And they haven’t said anything to you yet — I appreciate being allowed to explain it all — but if you ask them now, they’ll tell you what I’m going to tell you. That ghost in the corner — he ain’t looking right. He’s not pale blue like Drummond. He’s almost bone white. Like he’s trying to be a ghost from an old story or something.”
