Southern Blood, page 5
part #13 of Max Porter Mysteries Series
Tapping his chin as he drifted in both thought and form, Drummond said, “Who would set up a trap like that? There’s no way it could have targeted Max.”
“That’s my point. Whoever’s trying to screw with Reynolda House would have no idea that Mr. Carroll had hired us.”
“Which means the culprit set the painting there knowing that Mr. Carroll or Lily Lee or some other person working in this building would notice it, wonder what it was doing there, take the painting off the wall, and find that handprint. They were supposed to touch it and get whisked away to whatever horror their brains led them.”
Max said, “That’s all possible, might even be right, but where does that get us?”
Sandra shrugged. “I’m just trying to think this through.”
Standing, Max’s mouth formed a tight line. Something Sandra had said picked at the muddle in his brain. “If we set off this bit of magic by accident — because it was meant for somebody else — then why did it show itself to us in the first place? The bleeding frames and everything? I mean, if you were to curse a group of people or a house, you wouldn’t want your big, show stopping number to happen for the wrong people. Right?”
Sandra snapped her fingers. “Except that many of these types of things can’t differentiate between one person and the next. Not without more distinct magic like a casting circle — which our dear partner, Drummond, has said there isn’t one.”
“So, we’re suggesting that somebody set this in motion without any care for who got hit. Like a mine in a warzone. You don’t care who triggers it, as long as it’s the enemy.”
“Except instead of a mine, this thing was unleashed.”
Max rubbed his face. “If we had more time.” He wanted to go to the library and dig up old records of the estate. Maybe there was some reason to want this building shut down.
“Hon,” Sandra said. “You should calm down. If this is like any type of creature a witch could create, it will feed off of negative energy.”
“But we know a witch didn’t create it. There’s nothing that shows us anybody created it. Not really.”
“Magic as a whole is merely a harnessing of the natural energies that surround us. Since this thing did not attack me and went after you, and based on the experience you had in the Lake Porch, I’m thinking it’s feeding off your negative energy.”
Drummond pointed at Max like a huckster. “You see? All your negativity comes back to bite you.”
Max flipped off the ghost.
“Great. More negativity.”
Sandra said, “Two-and-a-half hours. That’s all we have. We need you to be brutally honest. Because if we get to the next witching hour and you withheld something, if you’re still harboring this negativity, then that thing will come after you again. I don’t want to know what it’ll do to you the later things get. So, out with it — what’s troubling you?”
Chapter 9
THE PORTRAITS IN THE DINING ROOM all stared at Max with accusing eyes as if souls from long ago reached out from the walls pointing their fingers. Max clasped his elbows as he looked from Sandra to Drummond. “What? I’m not holding back anything.”
With a soothing tone that made Max think of a psychiatrist, Sandra said, “I know how important our family has become to you. Especially after everything that went down with PB and his father. We have fought for those boys. Are you afraid we’re still going to lose them?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the boys. We’re not going to lose them. We may not be the most perfect of perfect parents, but were pretty darn close. We have an unusual job, that’s all. It creates unusual circumstances.”
“Ah.”
Max flailed out one hand. “Don’t ah me. I know what that ah means. I know what you’re thinking.”
Drummond said, “Well, I don’t. What am I missing?”
Max stormed closer to Drummond while pointing a finger back at his wife like a prosecutor in a murder trial. “She’s trying to say that this is my mother’s fault. Isn’t that right, hon? You think that we wouldn’t have any of these problems without my mother. That I should just get rid of her.”
As Drummond’s eyebrows raised, he gazed down at Max with a pitiful click of the tongue. “You got all of that from her saying ah?”
“She wants brutal honesty. Well, my wife has never liked my mother.”
Sandra said, “We’re making progress. Slow progress, but we are moving forward. Even if we never got along, even if she hates me to my dying day, I would never suggest that we get rid of her. I know how important she is to you.”
“Do you? Because as good as we have it right now with our little family, as good as those boys have it being with us, I didn’t have any of that growing up. If it wasn’t for my mother, I’d have had even less. My father — my real father, not that abomination from the Lake Porch — I never knew him. He was gone before I could even think about him. She raised me by herself, while holding down a job to keep food on the table, making sure I got an education, making sure everything that I needed was there. She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t an angel. You’ve heard me complain about her plenty of times. But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect her. It doesn’t mean I don’t owe her.”
Sandra paled as if Max had physically struck her. “I’m not denying any of that. Nobody here is suggesting she isn’t important.”
“That thing in the Lake Porch is. And if it’s feeding off my energy, then it’s feeding off my thoughts. So you explain to me why it’s suggesting the solution to our family being perfect is to cut her out of the picture.”
“Listen to yourself. All that negative —”
“Stop with all that negativity crap. I’m just angry.”
“Anger is a result of fear. Until you get this, deal with this — your mother — all that anger will feed whatever’s going on here.”
“She’s right,” Drummond said. He lowered to the floor and removed his hat. Scratching the back of his head, he cleared his throat. Max saw the earnestness on his partner’s face, and it dammed his flood of rage. Clearly, whatever Drummond wanted to say, the old ghost had to build up to it, build up the courage. More than anything, that fact twined its way through Max’s chest.
“You know, I had an absent father, too,” Drummond began. “I don’t like to talk about him because I never really knew him. I mean never. He got my mom pregnant by accident, was forced into marrying her, and did as little as possible to be my father. But I would learn over time that he always ran from his responsibilities. Even volunteered to fight in World War I just to get away. I also know about owing and respecting troubled mothers.”
He paused. Long. So long that Sandra moved to his side and reached up as if she were going to pat his shoulder, only to remember that she could not touch him. “She was institutionalized, wasn’t she?”
“I did the best for her I could. But even the best facilities back then were not wonderful places to be. Not unless you had ridiculous amounts of money — like the kind of money to build this house. Still, she did her best for me, and I made sure that when our roles were reversed, I did the best for her. So I understand why it’s important for Mrs. Porter to be well taken care of.”
“Thank you,” Max said.
“You know, having a family — any family — is a difficult thing. But it’s not based on how many people you’ve got. We don’t keep score. When it was just you and Sandra, you had a family. I had a similar thing once in my life with this waitress. Long ago. She had her own children, her grandmother — her abuela — and it was for just a short period. I know now that it would never have worked, but there was a moment when the whole thing packed into this little sphere, and nothing could stop us from being together. I’m not talking about the lust or overly romantic way you feel at the beginning of a relationship. I’m talking about that sense of family.”
“That’s exactly it. I’m trying to protect that.”
“That’s the thing,” Drummond said, leveling his ghostly gaze at Max. “You can’t control how a family takes shape. You can’t control any of it. All you can do is play your part and enjoy the good moments that you get. I know this because I had it once with my mother — just the two of us. I had it once with this dear waitress. But I never understood it. I never appreciated what I had. And I only know that because I have it again. Now, with you. I mean, for crying out loud, I even like those kids.”
Sandra burst out a sound somewhere between a cry and a laugh. Max’s body stopped responding in the shock. At length, he said, “I guess we are a family.”
“All I’m saying is that whatever flaws we have, whatever struggles you feel about this family, we are all in it together. We all want to keep close and united. So, there’s no need for you to feel this negative energy. Especially in this house.”
Sandra beamed a grateful smile at Drummond. More than anything, that smile made Drummond’s words true for Max. The old ghost really was part of their family.
Lights flashed through the front porch windows. Max looked over to see a car winding up the drive. “What’s this now?”
Setting his hat back on, Drummond said, “Oh, yeah. Thought we could use a little help. After I was in the Other, I swung by and convinced a friend to pay us a visit.”
“What friend?”
“Irene Beck.”
Chapter 10
LIKE THE POLICE, the Porter Agency had its share of run-ins with psychics. Sometimes it seemed that every other month brought a new one to their door. These folks — some well-intentioned, some scam artists — offered their services to help Max and Sandra speak with the dead, find a missing body, or understand the spiritual essence of their enemies. Of course, Max could already talk with one dead ghost and Sandra could talk with all of the dead. They had no need for sussing out which psychics truly held power and which truly held delusions. But during one case involving the Winston-Salem Fire Department, they met Irene Beck.
She was a short, stout woman with a big voice and a bigger drawl. Her strong confidence and charm ran as deep as her Southern roots. Most importantly, in addition to being an authentic psychic, she had become Drummond’s friend.
“Hi there, Sweet Cake,” she said, gazing up at Drummond as she entered the Reception Hall.
Perhaps more than a friend. Max did not wish to poke into Drummond’s private life. He figured the less he knew, the better. Still, he couldn’t help but snicker. “Sweet Cake?”
“Because he’s just all sugar.”
Drummond tightened his coat and leveled his eyes upon Max, daring any further response.
Irene walked right by them and focused on the pipe organ. “This is where it all started, right?”
“That’s right,” Sandra said.
Max broke away from his face off, and they all joined Irene. “It started playing itself, and then we tried to talk to this thing — whatever it is. Well, that thing didn’t like what we had to say, so it picked me up into the air and tossed me clear to the other side of the room.”
Irene’s eyes traced a path in the air to where Max had fallen. He found it difficult to read her expression — some blending of excitement and intimidation, perhaps.
Drummond said, “It’s like I told you — we’ve looked all around, even under the ground, and we can’t find any sign of a ghost or a curse. Until Sandra discovered that bloody handprint up in the gallery, we couldn’t point to anything.”
“If you want,” Sandra said, “I’ll show you where it is.”
Irene patted her chest and chuckled. “Oh my, all y’all are acting like a bunch of hungry hens about to get fed. Making so much noise and fluttering all about. Everybody needs to calm down. Now, I’ve worked with other paranormal investigators, too. Those ones don’t have the benefit of a friend like Drummond, so they have to deal with things in a more structured manner.”
Max tensed. “Don’t go comparing us to a bunch of camera hogging ghost hunters trying to get on television.”
“Watch yourself. Not everybody in this business is looking to become famous. Most of them, in fact, are simply trying to understand the paranormal world that they have glimpsed. Your little group is unique, and you ought to respect that. Your wife — with her own psychic abilities and her own connection to witchcraft — why she alone makes this outfit special. You throw your own private ghost detective into the mix, well, you have a leg up on everybody else in the state, probably in the country. But what you don’t have, what you need me for, is the wealth of knowledge about all the things greater than you in existence. Especially, those which I have personally experienced. Now, I’ve come all the way out here as a favor to a friend. Do you want my assistance or should I turn around and leave?”
Max did not have to look at Sandra or Drummond to feel their disapproving eyes on his back. With a sheepish nod, he said, “My apologies. We’ve been at this for a long time already tonight, and I suppose I’m a bit on edge. I meant no offense.”
Smiling thick enough to hide any undercurrent of irritation, Irene said, “None taken. Now, as I was trying to say, we’re going to approach this in a simple and logical order. In that way, we can discern what this thing is not, and hopefully, narrow down what it is. Because of your uniqueness, we already know that this is not a ghost. That’s good. That’ll save us many long hours of work. Likewise, to the best of your knowledge, there is no casting circle or other evidence of a witch’s curse. Any other entity out there is most likely going to be less obtrusive than a ghost. No offense, Sweet Cake.”
“I agree. Some of the ghosts I’ve known butt into all kinds of things where they don’t belong.”
“So, what we are going to do right now is sit down in this enormous and lovely room and be quiet. We will listen.” With that, she meandered over to one of the wide couches and scooted onto the end.
After standing in silence for more than a minute, Max decided it made more sense to sit. This process would clearly take some time. Besides, his back ached from the abuse he had endured.
He picked the couch opposite Irene, and Sandra soon joined him. Drummond opted to float near the ceiling and observe from above.
Within minutes, Max wanted to stand, wanted to pace around, wanted to at least tap out a rhythm on his knees. He glanced up at Drummond. The ghost watched his psychic gal with intense focus. Sandra appeared to be relaxed — waiting as if settling in with a good book and no cares to trouble her mind.
But not only did Max worry about the thing within these walls — the entity — he also worried about his own thoughts. If Irene took much longer, he would start to ponder the conversation her arrival had interrupted. He would think about Drummond and Drummond’s father and what the old ghost had meant by sharing that part of his life. Beyond the obvious.
Recognizing that he’d already begun to roll down that dangerous path of thought, he cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but you should know we’re on a time crunch here. The next witching hour isn’t that far off and —”
“Shush,” Irene said.
Max closed his mouth. With a scowl and a shake, Irene hopped to her feet and entered the Lake Porch. Everyone followed.
As she slowly walked through the porch, each foot placed carefully as if she navigated a minefield, she eventually settled on a soft cushioned chair. Closing her eyes, she sighed and listened.
Max maintained a distance, keeping back near the entranceway. He did not want to step any further than necessary into this part of the house. Pressing against the wall, he kept his eyes lowered, staring at his feet. He did not dare look up. The idea that he might see his father standing there, splattered in blood, with that sadistic grin on his face — Max’s stomach churned.
Or the ax.
What if Max looked up and saw that ax leaning against the fireplace? What if he moved any closer into that room and his mind grew fuzzy and the next thing he knew, he held that ax, and the blood splatter covered him and —
“Perhaps we should go into a different room,” he said. “We can tell you what happened here so that you might be better prepared to sense the things you’re looking for.”
In unison, Sandra and Irene said, “Shush.”
Irene struggled to return to her serene moment, but the frustration on her tightening features suggested she could not. With a roll of her shoulders, she pushed off the seat and returned to the Reception Hall. When the others followed, they found her already climbing the stairs. Max knew exactly where she headed. Sure enough, she walked straight for the gallery.
When he stepped in, he could not believe how clean the room appeared. Not a drop of blood on the walls, on the floors, in the carpet. He looked to Sandra, and she shrugged. At least, that much acknowledged that he had not imagined the blood. But it did little more to ease his mind. Especially because the bloody handprint no longer marred the wall. In fact, only the forged painting sitting on the floor provided any evidence that he and Sandra had experienced anything at all.
Irene walked to the center of the room and inhaled deeply. Like a yoga instructor, she calmed her breathing and closed her eyes once more. With her arms at her sides, she stood motionless.
Max wanted to stomp off along the balcony, put more distance between him and the gallery, but he didn’t want to leave Sandra. The games being played with his mind only jumbled his thoughts more. He did not want to think about the little psychic. He did not want to think about any of it. Because the more that the evening spun in his head, the more tension he felt. Even anger. With an audible huff, he said, “Perhaps if you tell us what —”
Irene said, “Shush.”
Sandra said, “Be quiet.”
Even Drummond spoke up. “Let the woman do her work.”
A heavy silence followed. Max wore that weight like a yolk keeping him in place. He tried to clear his mind, hoping that he could push aside his concerns about Irene. But she simply went from one room to another, following their previous encounters, offering nothing new.
