The max porter box set, p.42
The Max Porter Box Set, page 42
“I don’t know,” the man said, looking around for somebody more in charge than himself. “Shouldn’t you have a warrant?”
Drummond had anticipated this possibility, so Max followed the ghost’s instructions. First, he read the man’s nametag — Clarke. Then he said, “Mr. Clarke, I can get a warrant, but that means that I’ll have to call a squad car over to sit on this building for the next few hours while I hunt down a judge. We’ll have to put up crime scene tape just to be safe — in case a crime did happen here — and it’ll remain up until I view the video and determine that everything is fine.”
Max had no clue if anything he said would be legal normally, but Mr. Clarke sure believed it. His face dropped. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. Please, Detective, come on back.”
He escorted Max to the office desk which had a stained computer tower and an ancient, bulky monitor. With several keystrokes and a password, he brought up the video.
“Thank you,” Max said.
“I have to be out front for the customers. When you’re done, just leave it on. That computer can be temperamental.”
Once Mr. Clarke had left, Max and Drummond settled in front of the screen. Though he shouldn’t have expected anything interesting to happen, Max did not prepare for the boredom of watching surveillance footage. Staring at grainy images of the outside walls in real time defined boring.
They knew Laverne had gone to the bank first — she would have used the night deposit slot — and should have arrived at the pharmacy around eight o’clock. They avoided the hours before but then simply had to watch. Minute by minute. Looking for anybody or anything out of the ordinary.
After twenty minutes, Max wondered if they had missed something or they had been wrong about all of it. But a cloaked figure appeared on the screen and Drummond moved in closer. The figure trailed a gloved hand along the wall, ducked under the drive-thru window, and stopped near the top of the screen. When the figure searched around to make sure nobody watched, Max and Drummond got a clear shot of a young lady with an unmistakable, devilish grin — Laverne Mobley.
She bent close to the wall, pressing her face in as if reading tiny print, but her cloak dropped and covered the view. Max squinted out of habit, though doing so did nothing to clean up the image.
“What’s she doing?” he asked.
“Don’t know. But it can’t be anything good.”
A black van swept into view, and Drummond pointed at the screen. “This is it.”
The side door of the van slid open and two men with ski masks stepped out. Laverne spun around, her hand out like a claw. She said something, and the men hesitated. A bluff. Most spells took too long to cast, but these men did not appear to know it. Or they feared Laverne knew the few fast spells that could hurt them. When a moment passed and they were still fine, they moved in.
One man grabbed her by the arm, yanked her in close, covered her mouth, and wrestled her into the van. At the same time, the other man went to the same section of the wall that she had been inspecting. He crouched down and touched the wall with something metal. The surveillance camera flared bright and when it refocused, the van pulled away leaving nobody behind.
Max paused the video, reset it, and they watched again. “I don’t know what to make of that.”
Drummond nodded. “We’ve worked with less.”
“True, but that doesn’t make it any easier to understand.”
Max copied the section of the video onto a thumbdrive. As he left the store, he made sure to thank Mr. Clarke for his assistance. Mr. Clarke seemed only to care that “Detective Chalmers” left quietly and at once.
Outside, Max and Drummond headed around back to the drive-thru windows. They followed the path Laverne had taken, checking the approach, then ducking under the window, and finally stopping where she had been when the van came. Max glanced up and down the paved driveway trying to see if the van had left any marks.
“Look there,” Drummond said.
Max knew Drummond stared at the wall, and he also knew he wouldn’t like whatever he would see. He turned around. Set low in the wall, enough that one would have to bend over to touch it, Max noted one single brick — blackened and scorched.
“That can’t be good.”
Chapter 5
MAX PUSHED ASIDE HIS EMPTY PLATE and grabbed a few hushpuppies from the basket. He could feel the little fingers of deep fried cornmeal hardening his arteries, but hushpuppies were among the many wonders of Southern cuisine that he could not deny. Plus, having such a late lunch opened him to eating too fast and too much.
“You finished your burger, so can we get started?” Drummond had endured sitting amongst all the food passing their booth. Diner food, in particular, struck a hard string in the old ghost — too much like the world he lived in long ago.
Wiping his mouth, Max opened his laptop and loaded the video from the thumbdrive. Drummond eased straight through the table so that he could see the screen. Together, they watched as Laverne skirted along the wall, ducked under the window, and stopped at the brick. Her cloak fell to block her activities. The van arrived, the men went into action, the flash of light, and they were gone.
“Play it again,” Drummond said.
Seeing where this would lead, Max set the viewer on a continuous loop. Over and over the abduction played out. Each time, Max tried to focus on a different aspect of the crime. He looked for a license plate — it didn’t show clear enough in the footage. He looked for the driver — the man never got out of the van. He looked for shadows of other people who might have witnessed the incident — nobody.
As Laverne started her approach to the brick once more, Max popped another hushpuppy in his mouth. “Maybe this is a straightforward kidnapping. Maybe these idiots had no clue Laverne was a witch.”
“You may want to keep those thoughts a bit quieter around here.”
Max choked on his food. Glancing around, he saw a few diners staring at him but otherwise, nobody cared. Stupid — he had been so wrapped up in the video, he forgot that he sat in a public place.
In a lower voice, he said, “What about it, though? You think they picked the wrong hostage?”
“No.” Drummond watched closely as the van pulled into view. “They knew enough to do something to that brick, so they knew she was a witch. Maybe knew she was part of the Mobley Coven, too.”
“What about that brick, anyway? You ever see anything like that?”
He shook his head. “I thought it might be a Call to Power thing like we saw with those bones of the Alamance soldiers but that required a whole ritual and spell to work.”
“It also used blood, and that time, the magic infused in those bones caused the bones to break apart when they released. This brick didn’t shatter or anything.”
“Yeah. It looked more like it had been cooked.” Once more, Laverne ducked under the window and approached the special brick. “Maybe we have it backwards. Maybe she was casting a spell onto the brick and got interrupted.”
“Possible. Then the van shows up, they take her, and they do something to ruin her spell which causes a flash and burn reaction. I can buy that.”
“Either way, we don’t really know. We should show this to Sandra as soon as possible. There might be enough here for her to figure it out.”
“That reminds me,” Max said and pulled out his cellphone. “I need to check in with PB.”
Though Drummond said nothing, Max could feel the ghost’s disapproval. Well, he was dead. He didn’t have to worry about all the mundane parts of a life. He didn’t have to consider how empty it would all feel without Sandra. Heck, if Max and Sandra died, Drummond would get to spend eternity with them.
As he punched in PB’s number, his chest lumped with guilt. He knew better than to think so ill of Drummond. It wasn’t the ghost’s fault that Sandra’s interest in witchcraft bothered Max so much or that Max’s worry led to behavior that he knew to be wrong. If anything, Drummond had tried to look out for him.
“Hey, Bossman,” PB said.
Watching Drummond watch the video, Max said, “You got anything to report?”
“She’s been going around town talking to a bunch of women, one after the other. Some were really old bats, kind of weird looking. I’m guessing they all think they’re witches. I mean the one lady only had one eye and she was all hunched over. Another waved a wooden cane around like she could shoot magic out of it or something. It’s crazy.”
“I know it seems that way, but thanks for putting up with it. You’re doing a good job — keep on it. If I don’t call you by the time it gets dark and Sandra’s still talking to these women, give me a call.”
“You got it, Bossman.”
As Max ended the call, he snickered. PB would work extra hard for him the next few weeks. Anything to show Max that he didn’t need to go to school.
But Max’s mother had a point. Even if it turned out that PB could legally drop out, Max wondered if he should intervene. After all, he and Sandra were the only things resembling parents to these boys. Perhaps they should start acting like it.
“There,” Drummond said. In his excitement to freeze the video, he smacked the keyboard causing a jolt of pain through his ghostly form — ghosts and the corporeal world did not like to come into actual contact. Sucking on his fingers, he motioned for Max to stop the video and reverse for a bit. After a moment, he pointed straight at the screen.
“What is it?” Max said. He saw the van with the door open and the man holding Laverne from behind — same as the other hundred times he had watched the video.
“Look at his forearm, the one across Laverne’s shoulders.”
Despite the rough quality of the image, Max saw the distinct shades of a tattoo. “Can you make out what it is? If we know that we can try to search for the artist who made it. Not easy, but not impossible. Worst situation, we have to call every tattoo parlor in North Carolina.”
“No need. I know exactly what I’m looking at and exactly where we need to go next.”
“You going to share this information?”
Drummond cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a tattoo of a flaming cross. Belongs to only one group I’ve ever heard of, and they took Laverne to their only real gathering spot. It’s a series of rundown warehouses in Lexington.”
“Great. And who are they?”
“They’re witch hunters.”
Chapter 6
MAX DROVE SOUTH ON 85 until he reached the exit for Lexington. Following Main Street into the city, he then shifted over a block, across railroad tracks, and onto Elk Street. From there, it took only a minute before he pulled up to an old tobacco warehouse. Standing tall and cavernous, the brick building had long, narrow windows — most of which had been shattered by vandals. The railroad poked out of the grass and ran by the back of the building. Faded paint on one outside wall boasted Kapl Tobac - supplier for Reynold’s Tob.
“This is the place,” Drummond said as he appeared in the passenger seat. “Kaplan Tobacco. They were a private farming operation that Reynolds used a while back. Kaplan was one of the key men responsible for forming the Goodman Witch Hunters. I swear I thought I’d never have to deal with them again.”
Max went to the trunk of the car to prepare. He had a few bags packed with the items they regularly needed including a flashlight, a shovel, and a .38 — in addition to training at martial arts, he and Sandra had agreed to start learning to shoot. Not that ghosts could be harmed by bullets, but they had encountered many living beings that had no problem firing off rounds in their direction. They both thought being able to fire back with some degree of competence made sense.
But he had to admit that he lacked skill with his ability to handle a gun. Still, he holstered the weapon — he could use it to threaten somebody, at the least. He picked up a shoulder bag that had a first aid kit and some water inside. If things went well and Max retrieved Laverne, she might need those items. Last, he grabbed the flashlight.
As he strode across the weeds toward the building, Drummond said, “Back in my day, these guys were not to be trifled with. One of them somehow fell into knowing about witches and he convinced the others he was telling the truth. Not too hard, really. People tend to scare easy — especially when their prosperity is at stake.”
Max pulled open a rotting, wooden door. Though the sun came through the window openings, Max clicked on his flashlight. He entered a dust-covered office room. Another door on the opposite side led to the warehouse.
“At first,” Drummond went on, “these guys were mostly a nuisance and nothing more. They’d try to get information, try to find a witch, that kind of thing, but back in those days, the Hull family controlled all the magic dealing in the city. They made sure to divert these men from stumbling too far into a fateful mess.”
Max opened the door slowly. The warehouse looked empty and unused. Dust covered most of the floor. Huge racks rose toward the ceiling used for drying out tobacco leaves. Keeping his flashlight low to the floor, Max moved toward the end of one rack.
Drummond said, “But these boys were worse than a dog with a meaty bone. It turned into a weekly event for them. Every Saturday night they’d go to the bar, get drunk, and go witch hunting. Of course, the witches knew to be watching for these fellas, so the guys never caught anybody.”
Peeking down one long rack, Max thought he caught a glimpse of movement.
“Well, I knew trouble would be coming along eventually. I tried to talk some sense into them, but it went nowhere. Probably the whole thing would’ve petered out but one day they actually managed to stumble upon a witch in the woods. She was in the middle of casting a spell and they were fall-down drunk. Nobody really knows if she cast a spell at them or if they just panicked and ran, but one of the guys — Bobby Goodman — never made it out. They found him with his neck snapped.”
Max paused to look at Drummond. “He tripped, didn’t he? Tripped and broke his own neck.”
“That’s my guess, but they didn’t take it like that. Finally named themselves the Goodman Witch Hunters and they went out strong the next several nights. They eventually caught a young lady, took her here, to their hideout-clubhouse thing. Tied her to a stake and burned her alive. But it turned out, she wasn’t a witch. Just a gal in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Max glanced back down the rack. Again, he saw that movement. Somebody was definitely at the other end of the warehouse.
“After that death and the investigation, it took little to break a confession from one of them. They all ended up doing time. That ended Kaplan Tobacco and it ended the Goodman Witch Hunters. At least, I thought so. Clearly, they raised another generation or two to keep up the fight.”
In a soft whisper, Max said, “Will you please go down to the other end and tell me what’s there? I keep seeing something move.”
Drummond slid back a few inches. “That’s not a good idea. Not for me. If these are descendants of the original witch hunters, they’ve had a long time to branch out into other paranormal interests — like ghosts. I don’t want know what ways they may have learned to hurt my kind.”
Clenching his jaw, Max said, “Fine. We’ll do it the old fashioned way.”
He pulled out the .38 and started toward the back of the warehouse. Several feet closer. He could hear his own breathing grow harder. The cool air of Drummond following from behind only doubled his nerves — anything that scared Drummond frightened Max.
A clang echoed through the building. Max froze in place. Somebody had dropped a metal object — loud enough to be a crowbar or even a heavy-duty, long-necked flashlight.
“Either turn back or keep going,” Drummond said. “Standing still ain’t a good choice.”
Max licked his lips and walked forward. About halfway across, he reached the end of the one rack. There was a wide space cutting across and then another rack started. From what he could tell, the person making the noise stood at the end of the next rack, one aisle over.
Max shut off his flashlight — he had enough sunlight to guide him and too many nerves to keep the beam steady anyway. He let out a long breath but his hand still shivered. The .38 grew heavier with each second. He had been shot at before, he had held a gun before, but rarely had the two coincided.
He wanted to turn away and leave. He could observe the warehouse from a safe distance, watch who left the building, and then inspect the empty warehouse at his leisure. But that meant letting this man escape and probably meant allowing greater harm to come to Laverne.
“You can do this,” Drummond said — no judgment in his tone. “You’ve faced down a lot worse than a thug with a gun.”
Max nodded, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and jumped into the aisle. Brandishing his .38, he said, “Freeze!”
The single word reverberated throughout the warehouse. All his fear and anguish and adrenaline echoed off the walls, repeating those emotions back upon him. Before him, a shadowed figure with hands raised slowly turned.
“Max?”
Sandra? Max’s heart skipped and he fumbled the .38. It hit the floor and shot off to the side. He yipped in surprise and Sandra jumped at the gunblast.
Seven minutes followed as the two hugged and calmed their frayed nerves. They laughed out their anxiety and sighed out their fears.
“You two are lucky that gun didn’t kill one of you,” Drummond said, but Max detected some extra relief in the ghost’s voice as well.
After they had regained their composure, Sandra led Max and Drummond further along the aisle. “We’re too late,” she said.
Laverne Mobley’s body lay on the cold floor as if she had fallen from a great height. Her legs and arms had been broken, and her eyes remained open wide. Water soaked her clothes and hair. Strangest of all, however, was her skin.
Sunken cheeks and eyes. Dark purple bruising and pale white flesh pressed tight to the bones. Her emaciated form looked fragile and incomplete. Her wet clothing clung against her with large folds — too big for her shrunken body. Rope burns marred her wrists and ankles. The stench of Death emanated from her as if she had suffered from a plague for years before finally succumbing.
