Read Online Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) by Stuart Jaffe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Jaffe
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don't care about the witch. You want me to talk to her? Fine, I'll go talk to her. Okay?"
"No, you're scared. Maybe not of the witch, but of something. Me, maybe? You're worried that if you let me loose, I'll start haunting you."
"You already haunt me," Max said, trying to let the sarcasm ease his wounded nerves. "Really, though, I'm not scared. I've just got other things on my mind, that's all."
Drummond clapped his hands. "I see, now. You're scared that I'll just leave. Break the curse and your good pal, Marshall Drummond, the detective, will vanish forever."
"You highly overestimate yourself."
"I think you underestimate how dead-on I can be. Go see the witch, Max. And stop fretting. I'm not going away. Even if I didn't want revenge, I'd stick around. This is just too much fun."
Max tried to look away from Drummond, but the ghost kept floating before him. Drummond's eyes pleaded and smiled and harbored hope. Worse, Drummond was right. Max feared being alone in all of this. But what right do I have to keep this man imprisoned?
"Okay," he said.
Drummond put his arms out wide. "If I could, I'd hug you right now. Thank you. I promise I'll stick around. You've got my word as a detective and a ghost."
"Just tell me her name."
"Ashley Connor. You go see her tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Come now, my new partner, you're not going to make me stay stuck like this another whole day, are you?"
Like an old cop faced with yet another petty crime, Max donned his coat and said, "Fine, fine. Just give me the address."
Chapter 10
Sitting in his car, staring at the two-story office building amongst many clones in the office park, Max shuddered. Across the street, somber brown signs with white lettering pointed to the dwellings of lawyers and dentists. An auto insurance salesmen used the bottom floor of the tan building Max had parked in front of, and just a few blocks over was Hanes Mall and the endless rows of chain stores built up around the shopping Mecca. In this little, tan building, if Drummond had told the truth, Max would find a witch — not somebody playing at being one with nature or hoping to pull off a few sparkly magic tricks, but an authentic witch. He shuddered again.
His mind kept dragging him back in time to the life of an eleven-year-old stuck in an apartment while the Michigan snows piled ever higher on the ground. School had been closed for two days and though Max's father risked his life to escape to work, his mother had been just as stuck as Max. At first, she attempted to entertain him, but he acted so moody that she left him alone most of the time. They would, however, sit together in front of the television for lunch — sipping soup and munching on grilled-cheese sandwiches. Max loved that tiny half-hour — the only minutes of the day his mother did not flit around the house cleaning, organizing, rearranging like a nervous animal convinced a predator lay in wait should anything be out of place.
The strangeness of the memory crept under his skin, jangling his nerves to a higher degree than his fear already had achieved. For now, that predator was a witch. A witch? How can this really be a witch? He never believed in such things. Until last week, I never believed in ghosts, either.
From his wallet, Max produced a picture of Sandra. He gave it a kiss and said, "I wish I could tell you all this, but even if you believed me, and I know you'd believe me, I don't want you getting caught up in it." He could hear her arguing back, saying that they were supposed to be a team, that the whole purpose of marriage was to form that team, and that he could never protect her from bad things by keeping her ignorant of them. "I know," he said to the picture as he placed it back in his wallet.
Max clapped his hands in a way that reminded him too much of Drummond, and he got out of the car. Everything looked cold — the empty parking spaces, the quiet night air, the pale parking lot lights. Even the simple, brown door
"No, you're scared. Maybe not of the witch, but of something. Me, maybe? You're worried that if you let me loose, I'll start haunting you."
"You already haunt me," Max said, trying to let the sarcasm ease his wounded nerves. "Really, though, I'm not scared. I've just got other things on my mind, that's all."
Drummond clapped his hands. "I see, now. You're scared that I'll just leave. Break the curse and your good pal, Marshall Drummond, the detective, will vanish forever."
"You highly overestimate yourself."
"I think you underestimate how dead-on I can be. Go see the witch, Max. And stop fretting. I'm not going away. Even if I didn't want revenge, I'd stick around. This is just too much fun."
Max tried to look away from Drummond, but the ghost kept floating before him. Drummond's eyes pleaded and smiled and harbored hope. Worse, Drummond was right. Max feared being alone in all of this. But what right do I have to keep this man imprisoned?
"Okay," he said.
Drummond put his arms out wide. "If I could, I'd hug you right now. Thank you. I promise I'll stick around. You've got my word as a detective and a ghost."
"Just tell me her name."
"Ashley Connor. You go see her tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Come now, my new partner, you're not going to make me stay stuck like this another whole day, are you?"
Like an old cop faced with yet another petty crime, Max donned his coat and said, "Fine, fine. Just give me the address."
Chapter 10
Sitting in his car, staring at the two-story office building amongst many clones in the office park, Max shuddered. Across the street, somber brown signs with white lettering pointed to the dwellings of lawyers and dentists. An auto insurance salesmen used the bottom floor of the tan building Max had parked in front of, and just a few blocks over was Hanes Mall and the endless rows of chain stores built up around the shopping Mecca. In this little, tan building, if Drummond had told the truth, Max would find a witch — not somebody playing at being one with nature or hoping to pull off a few sparkly magic tricks, but an authentic witch. He shuddered again.
His mind kept dragging him back in time to the life of an eleven-year-old stuck in an apartment while the Michigan snows piled ever higher on the ground. School had been closed for two days and though Max's father risked his life to escape to work, his mother had been just as stuck as Max. At first, she attempted to entertain him, but he acted so moody that she left him alone most of the time. They would, however, sit together in front of the television for lunch — sipping soup and munching on grilled-cheese sandwiches. Max loved that tiny half-hour — the only minutes of the day his mother did not flit around the house cleaning, organizing, rearranging like a nervous animal convinced a predator lay in wait should anything be out of place.
The strangeness of the memory crept under his skin, jangling his nerves to a higher degree than his fear already had achieved. For now, that predator was a witch. A witch? How can this really be a witch? He never believed in such things. Until last week, I never believed in ghosts, either.
From his wallet, Max produced a picture of Sandra. He gave it a kiss and said, "I wish I could tell you all this, but even if you believed me, and I know you'd believe me, I don't want you getting caught up in it." He could hear her arguing back, saying that they were supposed to be a team, that the whole purpose of marriage was to form that team, and that he could never protect her from bad things by keeping her ignorant of them. "I know," he said to the picture as he placed it back in his wallet.
Max clapped his hands in a way that reminded him too much of Drummond, and he got out of the car. Everything looked cold — the empty parking spaces, the quiet night air, the pale parking lot lights. Even the simple, brown door
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