Southern Blood, page 14
part #13 of Max Porter Mysteries Series
Max said, “Not that you wanted to get back into this.”
She looked into her coffee. “I don’t know what I wanted. I think part of me expected Ms. Sinauer to summon a ghost, chat for a little bit, and send the thing back. Instead, she and her Brotherhood — well, that is, after we set everything up, they arrived with three hogs. I’ve got it on video. They slaughtered those poor animals for their blood and used it to call up the spirit. Have you ever heard a hog killed? They scream. Terrible sound. It’ll haunt you. I know it’ll haunt me.”
Max shifted in the booth to face Sandra. “Is that normal?”
“Screaming hogs?” Sandra asked.
“The sacrifice. I thought you had to use human blood for blood magic.”
Sandra waved off the red-headed waitress for a second time. “They’re not using blood magic — not the formal, witchcraft kind. If they’re using a real practice that predates witchcraft, I suppose sacrificing a pig could work. After all, even the Bible has animals being sacrificed all the time.”
Libby said, “The Bible — that’s what I was thinking. When they were killing the hogs, I thought that it was like something out of the Bible. Only they had a hokey element to it. It felt put on — like a bad stage production. I really thought it was still a fraud at that point.
“But as they went through their ceremony, strange things began to happen. The air started humming as if strained under a great stress and that it might even crack open. Lights blinked on and off. All the candles went out. We recorded everything, and I thought it was over. I actually thought that was the whole experience we had come to witness.
“Then Ms. Sinauer said it was time to bring up the vessels, and I knew she meant me, Angie, and Gene. I remember pushing back my chair and taking a few steps toward the door. We had the time it would take them to get to our operations room. We could’ve escaped. I was about to suggest we run for it, but then Mr. Carroll spoke up. He had been there as more an observer than a participant. At least, that’s how I saw him. But through the monitors, we watched as he began arguing — complaining is more like it. He was fuming. They had promised him an opportunity to join the Brotherhood, and this spirit being put in the proper vessel was to be his test. Yet now Ms. Sinauer wanted to use me and the others as vessels. He yelled that splitting the spirit in three vessels would weaken it and what’s the point if it doesn’t have its strength.
“Those two continued to shout at each other, but I don’t know what they said after because by that point, I had heard enough. I told Angie and Gene to gather their things. We were leaving. Gene sent everything we had recorded onto the server, and Angie tried to remove the hard drive. But we were too late. Those two big guys showed up and grabbed us.
“They drove us to a house — I don’t know where we were — and they treated us well enough as far as being held hostage goes. Whenever we asked questions about what was going on, they ignored us, so I don’t know much more. Around three in the morning, they woke us up, showed us into the car, and drove us back here. You saw the rest.”
Libby tried to pick up her coffee mug, but her shaking hand only clattered the mug against the table. She sniffled and managed another wobbling breath.
“I’m sorry any of this happened to you,” Sandra said. “I wish I could tell you it’s over, but Ms. Sinauer is still out there. So is the rest of the Brotherhood. While I can’t force you to do anything, I strongly suggest you get out of town. Go back to your old life. That boyfriend is probably still waiting for you, your job is still there, your life is still there. Don’t tell us where you’re going, just go.”
Max said, “Listen to my wife. She’s smart. We don’t have a lot of money, but I did slash your tires and that means you can’t ever get that car back. Not without the Brotherhood knowing. So, once you get settled, you contact us, and we’ll pay whatever we can to help out. If you want us to drive you someplace right now, we can do that, too. There’s a bus stop not far up the road from here.”
After spending the last minutes delving into unsettling memories, the practicality of Max and Sandra’s words hit Libby with visible force. She popped to her feet as if the booth had scalded her. She looked back at them. “If you really want to help me, forget me.” She walked away.
Max flopped back and drank as much of the coffee as he could before burning his tongue. “I know she did her best, but I feel like we needed more information.”
“I think we got quite a lot. In fact, she gave me a bit of a crazy idea.”
“Am I supposed to like the sound of that? Because I don’t.”
Sandra sipped her coffee. “You’re supposed to trust me.”
“That I do.”
“Good. Because we’ve got Mr. Carroll’s book from the Brotherhood. That has a lot of information in it. I think between that and my witchcraft resources, I should be able to find one or two spells that might help us. If I can figure out how to bring them together into one spell, maybe it’ll work.”
“You really think so? I’m not doubting you, but sometimes you’re telling me that you’re just a beginner and have a lot to learn, and other times you seem to be a heck of a lot more powerful than I’m realizing.”
“I’ve had a very unorthodox tutelage. Most beginning witches don’t learn their craft while facing off against the likes of Mother Hope or Grandma Mobley or any of the others we’ve had to deal with. So, even though I’m missing a lot of the foundational basics — and I’m trying to learn those as fast as possible — I do know some high-level things, too.”
Max dug out his wallet and placed a few bills on the table. “Okay, then. I’ll drive you back to the office so you can work. Then I’ll go get Irene and Mr. Carroll and bring them back. If we’re lucky, Mr. Carroll will brag about how brilliant he is and let slip a few more key details that’ll help you.”
As they crossed the parking lot to the car, they found Libby leaning on the bumper.
“I can’t leave,” she said with a defeated whisper. “Angie and Gene are dead because I didn’t have the sense to stop them from being greedy. Because I was greedy. I’m responsible for that.”
Sandra said, “It’s not your fault. They would’ve gone without you.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s what I feel. And I’m not leaving Winston-Salem or North Carolina until I see that they get justice. You said I have a life to go back to, but I don’t. Not until I settle things here.”
“You sure this is what you want?”
“You made it seem like time was a factor. Do you want to keep questioning me?”
Max unlocked the car. “Get in.”
Chapter 25
CRAWLING UP ADA AVENUE, Max knew trouble had come to Mr. Carroll’s house. The front door stood wide open and the screen door had been ripped right off the hinges. Max parked on the side of the road. He stared at the house for a full minute, waiting for somebody to come running out.
But the place remained silent. If people were still in there, the sound would be evident in the late night air.
Best to be safe, though. He pulled out his handgun. As he skirted by the chain link fence and across the lawn, he wondered how long he would continue to carry an unloaded weapon. Bluffing with it had become a comfortable habit — even if a bit ineffective. But someday, he would probably need bullets.
He hoped that moment would not be now.
The closer he came to the house, the faster his pulse raced. He worried that his heart couldn’t take the cycle of tension that he had been looping through all night long. Drug addicts probably felt the same way. Highs and crashes, highs and crashes. Only it had gone on so long this night, he couldn’t tell one from the other. He knew only that his blood pumped hard, his skin prickled while breaking into a sweat, and his mind juggled too many problems.
He pressed up against the house before peeking through the open doorway. The place had been ransacked. Torn to pieces.
Max stepped into the living room as if afraid he might wake some dangerous animal. When he had left, Mr. Carroll had been bound to a chair — that chair now lay in pieces on the floor and couch. Somebody had smashed it against the wall. In fact, that person must have smashed the chair several times at several locations — numerous holes in the drywall revealed pink insulation. But as much as things had been destroyed, it did not look as if somebody came searching for a small object — there were plenty of books still on shelves and drawers unopened. This looked like something else. A struggle, perhaps.
Standing in the middle of the living room, feeling the dread of another terrible event mounting on this night’s ever-growing pile, he called out, “Irene?”
No answer.
“Irene? You here?”
He heard a dull thump from the kitchen. Moving fast now, Max entered the kitchen as the pantry closet opened. Irene stepped out like a teenager afraid she got caught drinking. Until she saw Max. Then her apprehension vanished, her attention lifted, and her cheeks puffed as she blew out a long breath.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I thought they’d come back, that Mr. Carroll had betrayed me.”
“Why would you worry he would betray you? He already did. Betrayed us all. Where is he? Did the Brotherhood do this? What’s going on?”
With a gentle push, Irene walked by Max and headed down the hall. “Come on. This way.”
She led him to Mr. Carroll’s bedroom — cramped, off-white walls, dominated by a queen-size bed with crisp sheets and a burgundy pillow. Irene sat on the corner of the bed.
“There are a lot of bad things you could say about Mr. Carroll,” she said. “You’ve probably already said most of them in your head and a good number of them out loud. But I noticed something about this man, and after you and Sandra left, I confirmed it. Mr. Carroll believed himself to be a true Southern gentleman. Now, I know our Southern heritage has some horrible blemishes. Terrible things that will take a long time to rectify — if we can ever get over ourselves enough to admit to half of it. However, there are some admirable qualities about our culture, as well. And the gentleman side of being a Southern gentleman is one of them.”
Max’s adrenaline still pumped hard making it difficult to stand still and listen. Though she rambled, he had met enough people like this to know to keep his mouth shut. She had a point, and if he could find his patience, she would get to it sooner than if he interrupted. For once, he managed to fight back his urge to speak and instead simply let Irene get out what she needed to get out.
Gesturing at his hands, Irene said, “You can stop fidgeting. I know our situation. I’ll be as quick as I can. Now, Mr. Carroll and I chatted for a while, and I think he thought he was buttering me up. But I saw through that. However, as I stated, I also saw a true gentlemen. Because at one point his phone rang. I fished it out of his back pocket — which he was properly embarrassed about — and saw the call came from Ms. Sinauer. He told me who she was, I assume you know, and he warned me that she would be fixin’ to kill him. He told me I should hide. That was it. He did not ask me to set him free nor did he suggest I stay and become a victim. He understood that I would not leave my guard of him, so his best solution was that I hide.”
She took a lengthy pause, and Max guessed that she had finished her summary. He said, “I’m thankful you’re okay.”
“I am as well.”
“Did you see who came in here? Did they kill Mr. Carroll?”
“I did as Mr. Carroll suggested. Hid in the pantry. He promised they would not come in there, that they only wanted him, and that he would secure my safety by giving himself to them. I did not see who came, although I heard both a man’s voice and a woman’s. I heard them smashing up the place, but he told them to stop. That you had tied him up and ran off for the warehouse. They did not kill him. I would’ve heard that. Plus, you would’ve noticed a heck of a lot of blood all over the living room, and you haven’t mentioned that.”
“Okay — for the moment we can assume Mr. Carroll’s alive. Or on his way to his death. Either way, that’s not our priority. Saving Drummond is everything right now.”
“Then this will help.” Irene reached under the bed and pulled out a thin book. “Mr. Carroll is not a fan of Ms. Sinauer. Though he does not necessarily want to help us, I think he felt a bit of that old adage — enemy of my enemy. Or perhaps he didn’t want to see a sweet Southern lady like myself come to any harm.”
Max cocked his head to look at the book. It had a flaky, white cover as if made from albino eel skins, and in the center, a pentagon with a star in it had been drawn. “You open it up yet?”
“Of course. It’s more about the Brotherhood. Specifically, this is a collection of the spells they had uncovered over the centuries.”
“Looks awfully thin for that?”
“Without witchcraft or access to a witch’s books, magic can be very difficult to learn anything about.”
“Let’s get this book to Sandra. There’s got to be something in there that can help.” He reached over, but Irene pulled it away.
“Mr. Carroll told me two important things. He told me about a specific spell in this book. One designed for someone like me — a psychic. He also told me that whatever way we attempt to gain control of the spirit, we will fail unless we know the spirit’s name.”
Max had quietly been building a new image of Mr. Carroll, one in which he was still a power-hungry madman but also the version of a Southern gentleman that Irene had painted. But now Max saw the worst kind of used car salesman. “He wouldn’t tell you the name, would he?”
“I think he’s trying to buy time for himself. The more I recall what I heard, the more I think it was a show. Somebody freed him, but all that violence I heard — I’m not so sure what to believe.”
“You think he’s lying about needing the spirit’s name?”
“Not at all. But he’s a calculating man. When he told me that with the spell in this book, I can more easily make contact with the spirit, I grew suspicious of his motives.”
“Doesn’t matter what his plan is, if he even has one — not right now. We lose everything if we don’t get Drummond. So, if that spell gets the spirit’s name, we need to get it. If you can bring that thing here, then why are we —”
“Not like that. It won’t actually be here. I’m a psychic — I communicate with the dead. I can’t summon them to physical form. With this spell, I can make contact. A connection. With that, we can talk to the spirit. If we can learn its name, we can control it as if we held its totem.”
“Then we get Drummond back.”
“Maybe.”
Max did not like any of this. His gut told him to doubt everything Mr. Carroll had said and go to the library to research in-depth. With Sandra at his side, they could analyze and dissect this book until they found the truth. If it turned out that Mr. Carroll spoke honestly, they would be able to form an intelligent plan of attack.
Yet he could practically hear Drummond floating behind him, clicking his tongue, and shaking his head. The ghost would say that he did not like the feel of this either, but with time being a factor and the boys’ lives at risk, might as well jump in and force the spirit’s hand.
I really miss you, pal.
“Okay,” Max said, ignoring the gymnastics competition twirling his stomach. “Let’s do it.”
“Now? Here?”
“Now. Here.”
Chapter 26
THEY NEEDED FLOOR SPACE, and without a word spoken between them, they opted to avoid the living room. Instead, Max tilted the mattress against the wall followed by the box spring. Mr. Carroll had only a basic metal bedframe which disassembled with ease. As Max cleared these things away, Irene hastened into the kitchen and returned with a thick, red candle. She squatted in the middle of the floor, lit the wick, and opened the book. “Shut the lights, please.”
Max obliged, and the red glow gave the room a garish sheen. Irene wafted the candle fumes towards her face with gentle hand motions like a rabbi preparing to pray. She paused to check the book once more.
“This will take a little time,” she said. “It’s not like I’m walking into a room where there is a spirit and I’m trying to communicate with it. Here, I’m focusing my psychic energy to reach out and find the spirit. Kind of like radio waves, I guess.”
“Are you trying to say I should leave you alone?”
“Give the boy a medal. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
Max meandered down the hall and into the living room. He thought about cleaning things up, but the idea of expending that much energy did not sit well. Whatever reserves he maintained, he would need soon enough. He hoped.
He collapsed on the couch, his head resting back. It would be so easy to close his eyes. No. He sat forward and dug out his phone. Sliding his finger through photos of Sandra and the boys, he shook his head. They were crazy. Simple as that.
From now on, he should decline any jobs that sounded simple. They never were. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that all the cases which appeared simple in the beginning had turned out to be the ones that nearly killed them off — every single time.
Maybe I shouldn’t be taking any cases that jeopardize our lives.
Because now that he considered his situation, he had to admit that the Sandwich Boys would not be in trouble right now if Max and Sandra had never taken the case to start. Drummond would not be fighting for his ghostly life right now. Perhaps all of Max’s anxiety and uncertainty over the boys and Drummond was simply his brain’s way of sending a message — it’s time to end this. Close the agency. That was the thought that kept trying to break through his consciousness yet never found the chance.
And here it was.
He and Sandra had talked about it before. His sleep deprived brain thought they may have even spoken about it that evening. Or maybe he simply thought about it. Or maybe I’m thinking about it now.
