Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) Read online

"Please start driving your car."

  Any threatening message, any bullying tone, would have angered Max, but he would have managed. This, however, churned his stomach. With as nonchalant a maneuver as he could muster, Max tried to look around the area for a spy.

  "Please, Mr. Porter," the voice said. "If you want the truth about Stan Bowman, pull onto the road."

  Unsure what to do, Max did as ordered. "Who are you?"

  "Take Route 40 East to Durham, then take 85 North."

  "Durham? That's almost two hours from here."

  "From 85 North, get off on Exit 189 for Butner. You understand?"

  "Who is this?"

  "Do you understand?"

  Max repeated the directions.

  "That's correct," the voice said and hung up.

  Two hours provided Max with plenty of time to think and to worry. Even as the miles droned on and his conscience told him he was crazy to follow these directions blindly, his desire to get some bit of information overwhelmed all other concerns. He banished the idea that he might be in physical danger. Deep inside, he knew that to be true, but to give voice to such fears would only undermine his determination.

  He thought about calling Sandra but decided against it. He didn't want to risk missing a call from his informant. Informant? Yes, the word fit. After all, the man had contacted him with a promise of "the truth about Stan Bowman."

  When his cell phone rang, Max answered it before it finished its first chirp. "Hello?"

  "When you come off the exit ramp, you'll see a red pickup truck. Follow it."

  As instructed, Max took the exit for Butner and found a red Toyota pickup waiting. It pulled onto the road and turned west. Max followed.

  They headed into a rural area, taking enough turns that Max felt lost. At length, the pickup headed onto a dirt road, drove another mile, and pulled over. Max parked behind the truck and waited.

  The truck's door opened and a gray-haired man stepped out. He wore a simple outfit of slacks, an off-white shirt, and black suspenders. A slight bend and a grisly white beard added to his soft image. Any fears Max harbored vanished.

  The old man waved to Max and pointed toward the hill across the road. Then he walked in that direction, shuffling his feet in slow but steady steps. Max got out of his car, stretched, and followed.

  "Mr. Porter," the man said, offering his hand and a shining smile. "I apologize for the cloak-and-dagger bit. I can get a little paranoid. Then again, when you're dealing with the Hull family, a little paranoia ain't such a bad thing. Oh, sorry, my name's Phillip King."

  "Pleasure to meet you."

  King chuckled. "You sound awful wary. That's good. You should be. This is wary business."

  "I don't mean to be rude, Mr. King, but this has turned into a long day already. You said you have information about Stan Bowman. For that matter, how'd you even know I was interested? Who are you?"

  "Calm down," King said, and Max took a deep breath — he had not been aware of raising his voice and clenching his fists. "Now, let's see. I know about you because you upset Annabelle Bowman, and while Winston-Salem has become a decent-sized city, many parts of it are still very small town. Word gets around. Especially about old sore spots like Stan. As for me, well I used to work for Reynolds Tobacco. In fact, I worked in the factory where the POWs worked, where Stan Bowman took seven of them and turned them into nutcases."

  "You were there?"

  "I know all about it."

  "Then I'm very interested," Max said, staring at the open grass dotted with sparse trees. "Was it really necessary to come all the way out here?"

  "It starts here. This field was where the POW camp was. One of eighteen in North Carolina. There was even one in the Winston-Salem area, but those fellas that Stan went after, they came from here."

  "Can I write this down?" Max asked, itching to run back to his car and grab a notebook.

  "You just listen. You'll remember enough."

  "I wouldn't show anybody. I promise."

  "No, Mr. Porter. We're going to do this my way."

  "Okay. Your way."

  "Now, it's like this: I first met Stan Bowman in 1944. He came back from the War with a bullet in his leg — made the thing near-useless. They gave him a medal, too. I hadn't been able to go because I couldn't pass the physical. I've got a bad hip. So, I'll admit I was jealous of him. I could see the way the ladies gave him an extra few seconds with their eyes, the way they seemed ready to break all their vows just for a night with an acknowledged hero or something like that. Point is, I was jealous, and so I took it upon myself to befriend the man. I suppose I thought that by being close to him, I might get something of what he had, but that's an old man talking. Truth is, at the time, I just did what I did. Didn't give it that much thought.

  "Stan took a job driving trucks, so I saw him every week when he hauled tobacco in from the farms for processing. It was hard work for everybody but Reynolds took good care of us. Heck, we'd all have been without jobs if it weren't for him. The entire town of Winston-Salem owes that family their lives.

  "Anyway, we'd go out every night with a handful of girls and a lot of beer. Every night. It was exhausting fun," King said, blushing and laughing at the same time. "Went on like that for quite awhile. Maybe even a month, though I'm probably bragging. Still, it seemed that long. Until he met Annabelle and the parties stopped.

  "The day comes we get word that a bunch of German POWs were coming. Reynolds had finagled a deal to get free labor from them, and the government hoped if we treated them well, the Germans would treat our boys that were prisoners well, too. There were some awful stories coming back but nothing like what we'd eventually find out. By that time, Stan and Annabelle were full on in love and talking about marriage. I suppose it would have happened all like a fairy tale for them if Hull hadn't shown up."

  "You met Hull?"

  "Yup, I met him. William Hull. His boy Terrance probably runs the whole thing now. If not, he will someday soon, but back then, William strutted around like he was the greatest man in the world. I don't think Reynolds liked him too much. At least, that was the gossip."

  "When did you meet him? What happened?"

  "I'm getting there. Just let me tell you. Now, I only met the man once. Reynolds was showing him the factory, answering questions about POWs and all that. I suppose Hull was thinking about making his own deal with the government. Reynolds called me over and introduced me. I ain't nothing special, don't mistake me. Reynolds called me over so Hull could hear what it was like from the common man. Could've been anybody but he called over me.

  "Hull was a tall fellow with the sternest face I'd ever seen. I mean this man stared down at me like I was a threat to his family and he was prepared to kill me with his bare hands if it came to it. I'm not exaggerating. He shook my hand and stared at me and I'll tell you, I was a bit scared. Never had that happen before or since — that I got scared just from the look in a man's eyes. It was odd, but not nearly as odd as what happened next."

  "Wait a minute," Max said, closing his eyes and painting an image of this moment in his head. He knew he would never remember all the details but hoped that a simple snapshot in his brain might help out more than trying to recall King's every word. With a nod, he said, "Okay, what happened next that was so odd?"

  "Reynolds calls up some of the POWs and has them line up in front of Hull. Hull paces up and down the line like he's Patton or something. He looked more like a fool than anything else but I just worked steady and peeked at the goings on from the corner of my eye. Now, here's the odd part.

  "On his second pass, he's coming in my direction so I can see his hard face clear as day, and he hesitates for the tiniest moment and I swear his face dropped. I mean, he recognized one of them POWs. I have no doubt in my mind about it. That little pause lasted a long time in my mind and I know what I saw. I'm not saying Hull was in cahoots with the Germans, but he certainly knew something about that one in particular."

  King stopped speaki
ng and looked upon the empty field that once housed the enemies of the United States with his eyes sparkling in satisfaction. He stood straighter, and Max recognized a man lifted of his burden. For Max, though, the burdens continued to pile on and many could not be seen. Every one of King's freeing breaths inflated disbelief in Max.

  "That's it?" Max said. "You brought me all the way out here to tell me that Hull might have, maybe, possibly, known a Nazi or two?"

  With a patronizing pat on the shoulder, King said, "You're not listening too well. Hull, who never before and never after, steps foot into our factory, sees a prisoner who he is, in some way, knowledgeable of, and then just a few days later, Stan Bowman, a man who has plenty of good going for him, a stable man with a beautiful woman at his side — well, he goes crazy and kidnaps seven of these prisoners. That seems like a big coincidence to me. Not enough for you? The reason I brought you here is because all seven of those men — one of which was the man I saw Hull recognize — all seven of them came from this camp here in Butner. All the rest of the prisoners who labored in our factory came from the Winston-Salem camp. But these seven are driven hours out of the way to come work at a place that ultimately leads to their torture and madness. Is that really just a coincidence?"

  "There was an investigation," Max said, trying to act more like a detective and not an excited amateur. "Why didn't you bring any of this up back then?"

  "You think I was going to go up against a man like Hull? I had a life I was building. I didn't want to throw that away over a bunch of Krauts."

  "Then why now? You just old enough that you don't care anymore?"

  "A little bit, perhaps. Or perhaps I'm tired of sleepless nights, knowing that I failed to do the right thing. Perhaps I see a young man and his beautiful wife lured down here to become mired way over their heads in an old Southern bog, and I see a chance for a little redemption. Doesn't really matter, though, does it? Not to you. You've got what I know now, and I don't ever want to see you again."

  "But why did —"

  "No more, Mr. Porter. It's time for you to go," King said and crouched in the grass.

  Max did not move at first. Too late, the idea dawned that he should have asked if Hull carried a book. He opened his mouth but said nothing. The old man's determined concentration on the empty hills formed a steel wall against further talk. Max didn't even bother with saying Thank you.

  Before driving away, he pulled out a pad and pen and jotted down every bit he could recall. Detective work had proven to be more taxing than he had expected. All these threads had to be kept in order so that he remembered the questions at the important times. Already, he could hear Drummond complaining about his missed opportunity regarding the book. At least, he had more on the Bowman case.

  With so much time to get through until he reached home, he planned to think about all he had learned. However, his head pounded and he found a soothing jazz station to clear his mind from any thoughts. Miles drifted by without his awareness. As his headache eased away, two loud snaps startled him and the car swerved off the road.

  Max wrenched the steering wheel to the left but the car barreled forward. The steering wheel shivered in his hands. Gravel peppered the undercarriage like a snare drum. The backend of the car kept turning, turning, and Max had time to think the car might flip if it turned anymore. He let the wheel roll back in the opposite direction, trying not to fishtail. Braking at the same time as he fought the car, he managed to slow down. At length, he stopped. Sweat stung his eyes and his fingers danced on every surface they touched.

  He took several minutes to focus on little more than breathing. Cars passed by with gawking faces peering from inside like caricatures at an amusement park. All of life slowed down until he regained enough sense to move.

  He stepped from the car and inspected the front right wheel. Little of it was left. Max did not bother getting the donut from the trunk — he had no doubt in his mind the tiny emergency tire had no air in it. Instead, he called for a tow truck. Before he heard the second ring on the phone, he saw a small hole in the car's frame just above the shredded tire — no rust around the hole, and the metal bent toward the wheel as if something had shoved through from the outside.

  "Like a bullet," he whispered, recalling the snaps right before he lost control of the car.

  After arranging for the tow truck, and being told to wait inside his car, Max paced around, checking for more bullet holes. Somebody had shot at him, and he didn't know what to feel — it had never happened before. He kicked the car and screamed at the sky and spit on the ground. Huffing and red-faced, he opened the car door and sat facing the road with his head in his hands.

  Too late to go back now. Not that he could ever go back to Michigan. The people up there were always good to him, but he knew them well — they would not forget. Probably true down here, too. That was the real problem. No matter where he could run, Hull would not leave him alone. Besides, Max agreed with Sandra. The only way beyond this was to go straight through.

  "So, where am I?" he said, arching his back and tasting the salty trickles of sweat on his lips. "Okay, the best I can see is that near the end of World War II, R. J. Reynolds makes his POW deal and starts using them in Winston-Salem. For some reason, Hull visits this factory and recognizes seven of them. Why does he want them dead? Does it matter? Anyway, I don't know, but he gets Stan Bowman to do it and then pays off Annabelle with stock to keep her quiet."

  Only the whisk of passing cars responded.

  It would take another hour-and-a-half before his car had been towed and a new tire installed. A few more hours drive, and Max made it home. The day had ended.

  Except for the phone call.

  Before Max had removed his coat, the phone rang. He answered it, clamping down on his desire to bark out a few rude remarks, with a simple, "Yes?"

  A deep voice said, "Last warning, Porter. Next time we won't be shooting at the tires." The phone went dead.

  Max slammed the phone down and tore off his coat. "Fuckers," he spat out. Then he grabbed the phone and punched in a number he knew too well.

  "Hello, Mr. Porter," Modesto said.

  "What the hell is the matter with you people?" Max said, his voice rising as he stormed around his living room.

  "Calm down, please."

  "Fuck you. You send your muscle to threaten me and my wife, and now you're shooting at me? I'm doing everything you've asked of me. I'm working as fast as I can."

  "Shooting? Somebody shot at you?"

  "Don't even start with that crap."

  "Mr. Porter, I assure you we are not the cause of this. Now calm down and explain to me what happened."

  "You know what happened," Max said, but he doubted himself now. Modesto sounded truly surprised by the call.

  "Please, take a moment to think this through. What good could possibly come from our employer attacking you? As you pointed out, you're doing a fine job for us. Why would he spend all this money and effort to bring you down to North Carolina and put you to work, if he simply wanted to kill you? It makes no sense, does it?"

  Max flopped onto his couch. "No."

  "Now what happened?"

  In a few minutes, Max laid out the events of the shooting. He avoided any mention of Phillip King, Butner, Bowman, and World War II POWs. The shooting itself was sensational enough to make omissions easy.

  "Thank you," Modesto said. "I think I understand quite clearly now."

  "So, what do we do?"

  "You just go back to your job. I'll handle this."

  "I want to know who did this. I want them to be put behind bars."

  "I will find out who is responsible, and you can rest knowing that I will make sure they are taken care of."

  Max straightened. "Wait a minute. No, no. I'm not saying I want that. Just get them arrested."

  "I don't know what you mean by 'that' but don't worry."

  "You know exactly what I mean. Don't kill them," Max said, whispering the last two words.

/>   "Good-bye, Mr. Porter," Modesto said and hung up. Max looked at the phone as if he had no clue how it had managed to get in his hand.

  "What was that?" Sandra asked.

  Max dropped the phone as he jumped. His eyes darted toward her. "Honey, I didn't mean to wake you up."

  Sandra stood in the bedroom doorway, her arms crossed, all sensuousness missing despite her negligee. "Who were you talking to?"

  "What? Oh, just Modesto."

  "Just? Are you going to tell me that I misunderstood? That you didn't talk to him about killing people? Are you?" Angry as she was, Max could see her desperate hope that he would tell her just that — she had misunderstood.

  "Come here. Sit down."

  Tears welled in her eyes. "What's happening here? Please, tell me you didn't ... please."

  Max waited for Sandra to sit next to him on the couch. He held her hands, and said, "I was shot at tonight."

  "Shot?"

  "I'm fine. I was just angry. That's all you heard. And I didn't tell him to kill anybody. I told him not to. I just want them caught and put in jail. Honest."

  "Honest?"

  "You know me. I wouldn't try to kill somebody."

  "I know."

  "It scares me that you'd think that."

  Sandra pulled back. "It scares you? What am I suppose to think? You've been acting weird ever since that Drummond stuff started. I know there's a lot of pressure on you, and I know this is a tough situation, but still — you don't even call to say where you are, when you'll be home, or anything. I've barely seen you the last few days. And these people — I mean, your employer is powerful. I think that much is clear. And powerful people can be very persuasive. Power can be very alluring. I worry."

  "Honey, look at me. I'm one of the good guys."

  As Sandra's tears fell, she wrapped her arms around Max and kissed him. He held her tight, pressing his lips hard against hers, his body acknowledging that they had not made love in far too long. Heat washed between them like water cascading across their limbs. Both struggled for breath but neither let go of the embrace.

  Max's kissing moved to Sandra's neck and she let out a soft groan. He pulled back and held her face. "I'm scared," he said. "I want to run away from here but we can't."