Southern Gothic (6 page)

“Here! Here!” she said.

From down the hall, Max heard voices. “Is that her? You hear that?”

“Crap,” Max said as he darted out of the room.

“Oooo!” The witch’s voice swirled around Max as he rushed down the hall. Nearing the main room where sounds of the fight rushed back at him, the doors opened and two burly men stepped in.

One lifted a cell phone to his mouth. There was a high-pitched beep. “Yeah, we got him.”

Max whirled around and tore off in the other direction. He sped by the witch’s door and heard her crying out. The men behind him approached with caution. Max figured they knew he had no way out and they didn’t want to get hurt if he panicked.
Too late for that,
he thought as his heart raced fast enough to win a Nascar event.

He tried a door on his left. Locked. He glanced back. The two men blocked the hall with their bulk. He shuffled down to the next door, this one on the right. It opened!

Dashing in, he saw another door on the opposite side of the room. He hurried across, stumbling into a chair, and tried the handle. It opened into another hall.

Max sprinted off to the left, randomly trying doors, hoping to lose the men in this maze. But the more turns he made, the more doors he went through, the more lost he became. When he cut across another room, he entered a hall that looked familiar. They all looked similar, though.

Sweat poured down his sides and his ragged breathing rang in his ears. He had to think. But he could hear the men approaching. He dashed on, turned a corner, and all hope sank. The hallway became a tunnel with only one light sitting halfway down and one door at the end. A sign hung above the door with the word EXIT above. This would have been a welcome sight, if not for the two-hundred pounds of muscle standing in front of the door.

If Max had to be beaten, he figured one beating would be better than two. He walked toward the exit and tried to ignore the footsteps behind him. The huge man blocking the exit crossed his arms but remained in his spot.

One of the men behind Max said, “Hey, man, c’mon. You got nowhere to go.”

Max continued walking.

“Just come with us. Don’t make us hurt you.”

Max pressed on. He knew he should stop. He knew that they had him no matter what he did and that wherever they took him, more pain would follow, so why make the pain start now? But he couldn’t stop his legs even if he tried.

The boulder in front of him appeared to grow larger. He became a mountain blocking Max’s way. The mountain put out its hand, much like the witch had done, only this hand had no bloody symbol carved in the palm — this hand merely said
Stop, or you’ll be sorry.

Max cringed as he stepped closer. But the man’s hand started to shiver. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped. The two behind Max stopped, and one of them muttered, “What’s wrong?”

The mountain dropped to his knees. Drummond floated behind with his hand buried into the guard’s back. The ghost screamed out as the guard did so, too.

Hearing Drummond’s pain snapped Max into action. He bolted ahead, leaped over the guard, and slammed through the exit. The two behind him followed, one stopping to help the injured guard.

“Get to your car,” Drummond said, slouching in the hallway. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Max darted across the parking lot, heading straight for his Honda. The frozen night air cut into his lungs, but he kept running. His mind could only process one thought — get to the car. So, even as he noticed the wide puddle on the broken asphalt, his mind never warned him that in North Carolina the night air often dropped low enough to freeze water. He hit the ice and his legs went out from under him. His side slammed on the hard ground and he rolled a few feet further.

As he struggled to get back up, a meaty hand grabbed his shoulder. He looked up in time to see a tight fist approaching his face.

Chapter 6

Max’s eyes fluttered open
against harsh fluorescent lights. Cold concrete pressed against his back while he smelled old feet from the thin pillow under his head. That poor head — the ache started in the back near his neck, wrapped straight over, and settled on the bruises covering the right side of his face. When his eyes finally adjusted, Max confirmed where he thought he was — jail.

Groaning, he sat up. The cot offered nothing in the way of comfort, but he hadn’t expected much either. Off to his left, through the jail cell’s bars, he saw the tan wall of a hallway.

“So, this is jail,” he muttered. He had never been in a cell before. His calm demeanor surprised him at first. But the more he thought about it, he realized that he remained calm partly because his body hurt too much to worry and partly because he knew he wouldn’t stay in that cell for long. He couldn’t imagine the charges being anything worse than attending an illegal boxing event or disorderly conduct. Whatever the charges, his record didn’t have anything serious before. He might end up with some community service hours, but it wasn’t as if he stared at years behind bars. A few hours, a day at most — he could handle that.

“Well, ain’t this a pickle?” Drummond said as he entered through the concrete wall opposite Max.

Max thought he should revise how long he could endure being in a cell, if Drummond decided to stay. “No need to hang around. I’m sure I’ll be out soon.”

“You could use a few more hours in here. Your face looks horrible.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“They worked you over hard.”

“I had no idea. I thought the pain in my head came from you yapping away all the time.”

“Hey, don’t get all uppity with me. I saved your ass, remember.”

Max scooted to the edge of the cot, leaned over, and cupped his chin. “I know. Thank you. Seriously. Anyway, what did you find out?”

“Huh?”

“Come on. I can see the sunlight down the hall. I know you didn’t spend the whole evening watching over me. Not with all that happened. So, what did you get?”

Drummond grinned as he tipped his hat back. “Good to see you’re really getting the hang of all this. Well, while you slept off that beating, I followed that fat man to his home.”

“Do you have to say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like being fat is a bad thing.” Max waved off his complaint when he saw the confusion in Drummond’s face. “Forget it.”

“You people today get so crazy about the names of things. Sheesh.”

“Right. We’re all PC screwed up. Now, get on with it — you followed the
heavyset
man, the crime scene tech, to his home.”

Drummond peeked down into his coat pocket, listened, and shrugged. “Okay, okay. Leed wants you to know that really it was his idea to follow the guy home.”

“I don’t care who had the idea. It was Leed’s idea. Fine. And?”

“And his name is Luther Boer. He lives on the eastern edge of the city line in a crappy apartment. Married. Didn’t get a good look at the wife. She slept under a ton of covers, trying to save money on heating. No kids. That’s about it for now.”

Max rubbed his temples to stave off the pounding in his head from getting worse. “Thanks. At least that gives us a little something to go on.”

“
Little?
You got thumped in the head too much if that’s what you think.”

“Maybe I did. What am I missing?”

With an impatient huff, Drummond said, “Add it all up. You’re called to a murder scene in which Luther Boer is one of the crime scene techs. It just so happens that on the desk of the room in which the murder occurred, there are papers with information on a fixed fight. Luther is at that fight. Want to bet which fighter he laid money on? If those things aren’t connected, I’ll quit smoking.”

“You quit smoking the moment you died.”

“Then I’ll figure out how a ghost can smoke, I’ll start smoking, and then quit again. Point is this — if Luther didn’t kill Sebastian directly for those fight fixes, he certainly was involved. In fact, it looks like Sebastian was in on running this fight scam.”

“Damn.” Max clamped his mouth shut, holding back the urge to vomit. “Why do the weird ones always find me?”

“Nothing weird about a fixed fight. They happen all the time.”

“You didn’t see why everybody tried to beat me up.”

“They didn’t try, they succeeded.”

Max touched his swollen cheek. “Yeah, well, the reason was that I stumbled upon a witch casting a spell. I don’t know what she was doing exactly, but I’m guessing it had to do with the fight.”

“That explains what happened after you left. I told you at the fight it looked like Jackson wanted to win. When Gonzalez made his comeback, I thought I was seeing a master actor in Jackson. The expression on his face — he couldn’t believe Gonzalez suddenly fought back. I’ve seen fighters take dives before. They don’t look like that.”

“So, Jackson didn’t take a dive. The people running the fight used a witch to give Gonzalez an edge.”

“More like a sledgehammer, but yup. That’s what happened.”

“Maybe Sebastian was in on this scam. Luther figured it out. Then what? He kills Sebastian?”

“Probably tried blackmail first. They met at Baxter House because it’s vacant. Sebastian refuses to yield to Luther’s demands, Luther loses his temper, takes a swing at Sebastian, they struggle, and he accidentally kills your client.”

It fit together, but Max got the feeling they were pounding those puzzle pieces into place. Something was off. Lack of blood, for one thing. A struggle and accidental murder would have left a wound on the body and blood on the floor — but none had been found at the scene.

“Talking to yourself?” Detective Rolson said as he blustered down the hall toward Max’s cell. “You know, that’s the first sign of insanity from incarceration.”

Max waited as the heavy steps of the man approached. When Rolson finally appeared at the door, he leaned his shoulder on the frame and grinned. His blond hair seemed brighter this time as did his entire demeanor.

“I’d like a lawyer,” Max said.

Drummond said, “That’s right. Never talk to these guys without a lawyer.”

Rolson raised his hands with a fake, staccato laugh. “Easy there. No need for lawyers. You’re not getting charged with anything. In fact, you’ve been processed. I’m here to let you out.”

“Since when do detectives handle this kind of thing?”

“Oh, not usually, I admit. But I wanted to have a little chat with you before you go.” Max edged back in the cell, and Rolson made that same horrible laughing sound. “Now, now, no need to worry. I wasn’t implying anything but a real chat. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Drummond shifted closer to Rolson. “You want me to freeze his brain? I’ll do it gladly.” Max shot Drummond a harsh look. “I was joking. Sheesh. If you want to be like that, then I’ll go wait for you outside.” With that, Drummond left.

Rolson pressed up against the bars, his belly pushing through, and snorted hard as if he might spit into the cell. “I’m a little troubled by what I see. I got a guy whose name comes up in a murder investigation, and only a couple days later, same guy gets hauled in for disorderly conduct at an underground, illegal boxing match. Quite a coincidence. Now, something I’ve learned over my years as a detective is that there are no coincidences. So, you being at these places — this troubles me.”

“Me, too.”

“Don’t be a wiseass. I’m trying to help you here.”

Rolson unlocked the door and slid it open. Even when opening, it made the telltale clanking sound of finality. Max wondered if the companies that made these doors had purposely designed them to make that sound.

Rolson stood firm in his position, forcing Max to sidestep in order to exit the cell. As he passed through, Rolson poked him in the chest several times. “You listen to me. Whatever you’re involved in, get out now. You’re clearly much too frail to run around with people who can make your face look as bad as it does — people who commit murder. You’re not ready for these kinds of people. You don’t know what you’re up against, and from what I’ve seen in this world, you don’t want to know.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll consider it.”

“No, you won’t. I’ve seen enough like you in my time. I know how this plays out.” Rolson hefted his pants up and readjusted his shirt. “Well, the advice I’ve given you, that’s the carrot. Here’s the stick — you got connected to my murder case, you got busted at this fight, that’s your two strikes, as far as I’m concerned. You so much as get a speeding ticket, I’m going to find out about it, and I’ll drag your ass in. You understand me?”

Max’s muscles tensed. Part of him wanted to deck Rolson and send him sprawling to the ground. In his younger days, Max might have done just that, but he clenched his teeth and in a low growl said, “Yes, sir, Detective Rolson. I understand you one hundred percent, five-by-five, and crystal clear.”

Not content to let Max have the last word, Rolson gave Max’s shoulder a little shove down the hall. “We’ll see. Perhaps your wife can keep you in line.”

Max looked back. “My wife?”

“Yeah. She’s the one that came to get you.”