Southern Belle Page 3

  "Okay, so you know my name. Do I get yours?"

  Black Suit stood and reached into his jacket pocket. For an instant, Max thought he might pull a gun, but before Max could react, Black Suit produced a business card. Max glanced at it:

  PETER STEVENSON

  SPECIAL AGENT

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS

  Max curled his mouth. "I'm supposed to believe this from a business card?"

  Stevenson glanced around as he pulled out a black leather ID holder. He flashed his official FBI identity badge. "Good enough?"

  Max's gut twisted, and he thanked all things holy that he had declined breakfast that morning. "What does the FBI want with me?"

  "Just to talk."

  "Then why not come to my office, flash a badge, and talk? Why follow me around?"

  "Had to make sure you were the right man to talk to."

  "Well, you're still following me, so am I?"

  "I think so. But others aren't so sure, and since I don't work in a small group like you, getting decisions made sometimes takes time."

  "Am I going to be under arrest or something?" Max asked, the words choking in his throat.

  "What for?"

  "I don't know. You're the one following me."

  Stevenson smirked, and Max wanted both to slap the man and run at the same time. "Relax, Mr. Porter. I told you we only want to talk."

  "Fine. Talk."

  "Not now. But I'll be in touch soon." Stevenson patted Max's shoulder as he walked away.

  Max fell into the nearest chair and said nothing — breathing felt like enough of an accomplishment. He couldn't believe he had managed to say half of what came out of his mouth. It was one thing standing up to the Hulls or taking any of the gambles the world had placed before him, but to talk like he did to the FBI. Yet he did. An odd pride warmed his chest. He had used all he had learned recently in order to maintain his self-control and stand his ground.

  "Max, you done okay," he said.

  But patting himself on the back only went so far. It didn't change the fact that the FBI had taken an interest in him. He thought over all that had happened since he and Sandra first arrived in Winston-Salem. He had seen magic and ghosts, but unless Fox Mulder was based on a real man, he didn't think the FBI investigated such things. Max had witnessed real criminals and real crimes, though, and those the FBI might be quite interested in. Although his own involvement had been minimal, perhaps the FBI thought they could lean on him hard enough to turn him into a good snitch. Or a patsy. Whatever their interest, he had no doubt it would be bad for him.

  His cellphone chirped, jolting him from his chair. His knee slammed into a desk and his heart hammered away in his chest. He glanced at the phone's screen — Sandra.

  "Hi, hon."

  "You sound funny," Sandra said.

  "I just might never walk again thanks to your call."

  "As long as it's nothing serious."

  "Nah. Walking's overrated. What's up?"

  "We just got a strange call that you're not going to like."

  Max's stomach churned again. "Tell me."

  "Mr. Modesto is on his way to the office. He wants to see you immediately."

  Modesto. Terrance Hull's former right-hand man. The one who once handled all the distasteful work that spewed out of that family. Max didn't know Modesto's standing in the family anymore, but based on their last meeting, it had significantly improved. One thing was sure — this wasn't going to be a pleasant, social call.

  With a sigh, Max said, "I'm on my way."

  Chapter 4

  Before Max had stepped foot in his office building, Drummond appeared next to him. Wearing the long overcoat and Fedora he had died in, Drummond always looked like a faded picture from the days of World War II. None of the pedestrians on the sidewalk noticed him.

  "What in Sam Hill have you been researching all this time that you couldn't come back to the office for a little?" Though Drummond had a tough guy voice, he could whine with the best — spending five cursed decades stuck in one place can do that.

  They walked by the empty storefront that once housed Decon Arts — an art gallery that had caused them plenty of trouble in the past. Max peeked in the window and noticed that the back door was ajar. He wondered if they would be having a new tenant soon.

  "You see something in there?" Drummond asked, his icy presence freezing Max's shoulder.

  I should've met Modesto at a restaurant. While any restaurant convenient to reach would be well within Drummond's range — a ghost could go pretty much anywhere within a wide radius around the point of death — the old ghost avoided certain locations because they reminded him of the things he could no longer indulge in. Drummond loved cigarettes, alcohol, and women. Possibly in that order. Food never ranked high on the indulgence list, but it still made the list. As a result, Max knew Drummond wouldn't bother him at a restaurant unless a dire situation arose. Too late now. Modesto might already be waiting.

  As they entered the side stairwell that led above the store and to his office, Max said nothing. He didn't need the neighbors seeing him having an argument with empty space. When they reached the third floor, an apartment door opened. No surprise. The crusty old lady living there seemed to camp out right by the door, waiting for any sound of life passing by. She took one look at Max, squinted her eyes at him and scowled.

  Drummond snorted — well, he made a snorting sound. Max didn't know if a ghost could truly snort. "I ought to go in there and give that old bat a scare."

  Max opened the door to his office and shook his head. "That's all we need. Police investigating a woman dying from fright."

  After a kiss from Sandra, Max settled behind the huge oak desk that made up the centerpiece of his office. It had been Drummond's office first and contained all the original furnishing — big desk, built-in bookshelves, small tiled bathroom off to the side. They had put in another desk for Sandra and a small half-fridge for sodas, leftovers, and the occasional bagged lunch, but otherwise, it all remained the same.

  "You still haven't told me what's going on. What's been so important that I've been sitting around with your wife all day?" Drummond floated over to Sandra and winked. "Not that I'm complaining. This gal is one of the best women I've ever had the pleasure —"

  "You've never had the pleasure," Sandra said with a sly smile. "And you never will."

  Max glanced at his watch — 10:30 am. "You called me right after Modesto called?"

  "Yup. He should be here any minute."

  Drummond perked up even as he shot a frown at Sandra. "You never tell me anything. So, Modesto called? What's he want?"

  "That's what I'm here to find out," Max said.

  "Oh, I see. If Modesto calls, Max drops everything and comes running."

  "He's the face of the Hulls for us, and the Hulls are the ones paying our bills. Would you rather they throw us out of here and curse you again?"

  "They wouldn't dare. Not with you holding that journal over them. Anything happens to any of us, and all their dirty secrets will be made public — it'd be the end of that family's power." Drummond poked his head through the outside wall. "Looks like he's here."

  "Okay, you two," Max said. "Not a word. Just let Modesto say his piece and leave. I don't want him here any longer than necessary."

  "Listen to you," Drummond said as he returned fully into the office. "I think I'm starting to have a positive influence on you."

  Before Max could respond, they heard the steady thump of a heavy foot on the stairs. Modesto paused, perhaps considering whether or not to knock, and finally opened the door to enter. As usual, he wore a well-tailored suit and kept his appearance equally well-tailored. He was a tall man who looked rather bookish, but Max knew better. Modesto was the perfect man for his job — the kind of man who would do anything for his boss, no matter how distasteful, because he did the job for more than mere financial gain. He believed in his boss with a religious fervor, and that made him dangerous.

/>   "Mr. Porter," he said in his clipped, exacting manner. "So good of you to be here as requested."

  "Of course, I'd be here. I honor my commitments. I've got to say though that I was surprised by your call. Since hiring us on, the Hull family has yet to actually make use of us."

  "Yes, well, your vacation comes to an end today. Our employer has a task that requires your unique talents. Or perhaps I should say the unique talents of your wife." Modesto glanced at the empty spaces around the office. "And others."

  Drummond took a spin around Modesto's head. "I think he means me. Can I poke him a little? Give him a chill?"

  Max could see Sandra biting back her laughter, and a smile crept on the edges of his own mouth. "Look," he said to Modesto, "I know you don't want to be here, so spit it out and let's get out of each other's hair."

  "Eloquent as ever, Mr. Porter."

  Drummond swiped his hand across Modesto's shoulder. "I hate this prick."

  Modesto shivered and snatched a peek over his shoulder. "Our employer wants you to locate an object — a handbell — that is quite important to the Hull family."

  "A handbell?" Max looked to Sandra, and she shrugged.

  "An old family heirloom which was lost long ago. Mr. Hull has decided —"

  "Which Mr. Hull? Is Terrance running the family business now or is it still William? Or didn't old William die?"

  Modesto paused, his cheek twitching. "If our employer wants you to know the particulars of his family structure, than our employer will see that you receive such information."

  "Must be Terrance, then. If William were still in charge, he'd want everyone to know it. Kind of a virility thing, I guess." Max propped his feet onto the desk.

  "Regardless of what you think, Mr. William Hull is still quite active and fully cognizant despite his age."

  "In other words, Terrance is in charge."

  Drummond brought his hands together in one sharp clap. "O-ho, Max, you got him on the ropes now. He's already saying more than he likes to. Now, keep it up. Get him to reveal something more, anything at all."

  "Is it Terrance, then, that wants this object — this handbell?"

  "It doesn't matter who sent you this order. You are to fulfill your contractual obligation. The Hulls are spending a considerable amount of effort reclaiming the pieces of their heritage which have been lost over the years. You are on retainer for this very purpose. Find the bell and bring it to me. It's that simple."

  "I doubt it's that simple."

  "I don't really care what you think. I am only here because I have been ordered to do so. Your success or failure means nothing to me."

  Max doubted that, too. Not because Modesto held any regard for Max's well-being, but rather because Modesto would want anything the Hulls attempted to succeed. If dealing with Max was the burden for that success, then Modesto would do it gladly — even if he acted like it might kill him.

  "Now that we know where you stand on this," Max said, "how about sharing some pertinent information?"

  "What more do you want? I told you what you have to do."

  With an exasperated huff, Sandra got to her feet and put both hands on her hips. "I swear, the two of you are children. Max, stop goading him. Just let him do his job. And you, Mr. Modesto, stop being a pain in our ass. You want us to find this bell, then you better start giving us what you know or I'll place a call to Terrance Hull myself and ask him why his errand boy is obstructing our progress."

  Drummond turned to Max. "Why can't you be more like her? She's incredible."

  Modesto blanched but quickly recomposed his controlled, cold demeanor. He circled the room once, his eyes roving over the furnishings as if he were an appraiser disappointed at what he saw. Finally, he turned on his heel and tapped his chin. "The bell is one of a baker's dozen — handcrafted, brass, and extremely rare. All the bells in the set are identical. The handle is painted white with a red stripe about halfway down. The outer rim of the bell has an ornate, geometric design carved along it and a rather flourished capital H marks the inside rim."

  "How old are the bells?" Max asked.

  "I don't know the exact age but they've been in the family for generations."

  "When were they lost? How long ago?"

  "At least a century."

  Before Drummond could start yammering in Max's ear, Max sat up. "Why the sudden interest? Or has the family been looking for over a hundred years and still can't find this bell?"

  "Honestly, I don't think anybody has bothered before to find it," Modesto said. Max never liked when people began a sentence with the word Honestly. It usually meant they were about to lie. "But Terrance Hull wants to restore his family to the great standing it held in the past. And having a complete set of these bells is a symbolic act in that direction. At least, that's how I interpret it. But neither you nor I need to have an opinion on these matters. You now have more than enough information to begin your search. I'll return soon for a full report."

  Modesto gave one final look of distaste before turning to the door and walking out in his measured, clipped pace.

  Drummond stuck his head outside the wall again. Once Modesto had left the building, he returned to the office. "That guy needs a stiff drink and a fine woman."

  Sandra pulled a chair up to Max's desk and sat. "What do you think this is about?"

  "Come on, Sugar," Drummond said, floating above the desk. "You heard the man. He let it slip — Terrance Hull has taken over the family, and he wants it to go back to its former glory. You know, the days when they took care of a pesky detective by bumping him off and cursing his ghost."

  "You've got the pesky right."

  Max said, "It's more than that. Remember what the witch Connor said to me the last time I saw her? She said the Hulls were trying to find three sacred objects in order to cast a spell that would resurrect Tucker Hull, their founding father. Tucker's journal, and Blackbeard's hair were the first two. This bell must be the third. That would explain why they want to find it all of the sudden."

  "They've never been this close before."

  As Drummond peered over the edge of the desk, his attention drawn to something on the floor, he muttered, "And bringing back Tucker would be the ultimate in restoring the family."

  To Sandra, Max asked, "Can they really do this? Resurrect Tucker Hull?"

  Sandra planted her elbows on the desk and her chin in her hands. "Beats me. Just because I can see ghosts doesn't mean I know everything about the supernatural."

  "Then I need you to find that out. I'll start searching for this bell." Max raised a hand to stop Sandra from protesting. "You know how the Hulls operate. They'll be watching us. If I don't put on a show of at least attempting to find this bell, we'll have a lot more to worry about. Besides, searching for it and finding it are two very different things. And they've been after this for a hundred years or so. I don't think they'll be too shocked if it takes me awhile."

  "Okay." Sandra rose and headed for the door. "I'll see what I can learn about resurrection spells."

  Max caught her eye and jutted his chin toward Drummond. She shook her head but Max flashed his puppy dog look. She nodded.

  "Hey, Drummond," she said. "You want to come with me? It'll be more fun than watching Max read about handbells."

  But Drummond did not answer. Max followed the ghost's gaze to the newspaper Joshua Leed had given him. It lay open on the floor next to Max's laptop. The headline of Dr. Ernest's murder seemed to grow bolder every second. Drummond looked from Sandra to Max, his brow locked in confusion.

  "What's wrong?" Max asked, hearing the tremor in his own voice.

  Drummond pointed Sandra back to her chair. To Max, he gestured toward the bookcase. "You might want a swig."

  Max didn't have to ask. He had been thinking the same thing. He walked over to the bookcase and pulled out one of several false books Drummond had always stored. Inside was a silver flask filled with well-aged whiskey.

  After Max sat and had poured a shot f
or Sandra and one for himself, Drummond began to pace the room. He clasped his hands behind his back. He took another glance at the newspaper and said, "We've got to talk."

  Chapter 5

  Max and Sandra waited as Drummond drifted around the room — his version of pacing. Questions stampeded through Max's mind, but he kept quiet. The fact that Drummond caught sight of the newspaper did not incriminate Max directly. After all, Max could have bought the paper that morning, and it just happened to flip open to the page detailing Dr. Ernest's murder. There was no undeniable link between Max and any knowledge of Dr. Ernest. Of course, if Drummond thought about it for more than a second, he'd wonder why Max had a newspaper in the first place when Max had been a digital guy for years.

  Then I have to make sure he doesn't think anymore. "Are you going to talk or did you simply want us to watch your ability to float around the room?"

  Drummond shot Max a warning frown. "Have a little patience. This goes back a long time. I want to make sure I have the details right."

  The details. Drummond had taught Max that when a suspect starts concentrating on the details, chances are that lies will being coming out soon enough. Max exhaled as softly as he could manage. If Drummond picked up on his relief, the old ghost might get suspicious.

  "My apologies. Take your time."

  To Max's pride, Sandra picked up on the situation as well. "Should we order food? If this is going to run all day into dinner, we'll want to make sure we get something delivered."

  "Good idea, dear. You want Chinese or Indian tonight?"

  "Okay, okay," Drummond snapped. "I didn't know you were in such a hurry." He gazed at the office door, the frosted glass showing its age with cracks from the corners and stains on the edges, and his face relaxed as if he were sailing back in time, seeing it all happen before his dead eyes.

  "That man in the paper, the one that died — his name was Dr. Matthew Ernest. He was a young man when I knew him, and though I only knew him a short time, I've always felt close to him. Sort of like how soldiers become brothers under fire." He pointed to the door. "The day he came through there, I had been working the oddball angle for quite a while. Ghosts, curses, witches — if it had a hint of the unexplained, people found their way to my door."