Southern Gothic (11 page)

“See that — you do like having me here to watch out for you.”

“I just don’t want to have to tell you everything that goes on in there.”

“Sure. I understand.” Drummond crossed his arms, cocked his head to the side, and smiled.

Max opened the door. With Sandra leaning on his shoulder, they walked inside. Fluorescent lights flickered on from above. One buzzed loudly and flickered off.

In what light remained, Max saw a circular room with heavy stone walls like a medieval castle turret. Seven doorways had been carved into the walls, but even from the study, Max could see that the doors would never open — they were merely carvings of doors, not doors themselves. To the left hung a portrait of a stern man with little hair and bushy white eyebrows. He seemed to be staring at the center of the room, which made sense to Max considering the painted circle on the floor complete with numerous magic symbols. A four-foot candlestick stood in the center of the circle and a black, unlit candle perched at the top.

Sandra walked over to the portrait to inspect the metal plate underneath. “Says this is Cal Baxter.”

“Kind of an ugly guy,” Max said as he squatted near the circle. He ran a finger along the paint, curious if it was so old it would flake off or so new his fingers might stick.

Something heavy smacked into his head. He saw splotches of color and his ears rang. He heard huffing like a bull ready to charge. And he saw a creature with ram’s horns and a flat face — its nose and eyes and mouth mere suggestions of flesh slit open.

“Max!”

Sandra’s voice.

His eyes fluttered open. He lay on the floor of the study. “What happened?”

Drummond peered out the window. “You passed out. What do you think happened?”

“Can you stand?” Sandra asked.

“Don’t coddle him. You two have got to get moving. A car pulled up. Somebody’s getting out. Oh, crap, it’s Rolson.”

Sweat beaded on Max’s forehead and his body chilled. He sat up. The motion caused his stomach to constrict, but he managed to avoid throwing up. With Sandra’s help, he struggled to his feet.

“First you dropped, then me. What happens if we both go?” He tried to smile, but all humor fled when he saw Rolson standing in the doorway to the hall.

“Well, bless your heart,” Rolson said in a dead voice. “Y’know, when I heard a call came in from a concerned neighbor that somebody had broken into the Baxter House, I knew it was you. I even told the beat cops I’d handle it — that’s how confident I was that when I walked in here, I’d find you. Didn’t expect you to bring your wife, though.”

Trying to stand straight, Max said, “This isn’t what you think. We’re not trying to steal anything.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Rolson stared straight at Max, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he held back a sadistic grin. “If anything, I figure you wanted to get rid of some evidence we must have missed. Or to show off to the missus the scene of your crime.”

“My crime? You don’t really think I —”

“Let me make this clear to you — as in crystal clear and five-by-five. I warned you not to cross my path again. I told you it would be a bad move. See, I’ve found that there are two types that don’t follow a solid warning like that — idiots and criminals. Which one are you?”

“I’m not a criminal, so I guess you think I’m an idiot.” Max took a breath, ready to launch into a verbal assault regarding his rights and justice and how come he’s the only one looking seriously into Sebastian Freeman’s murder, when he felt Sandra’s hand grip his waist tight. No need to look at her. Max knew the expression in her eyes and the thought in her head —
Keep your mouth shut.

Drummond drifted into the room. Max hadn’t realized the ghost had left. “I checked outside. Rolson’s alone. That’s not a good sign.”

Rolson sauntered into the study. He rolled his knuckles on the desk as he looked around. “I can see how it played out in here. You were hired to look into Freeman’s ancestry, right?”

Max nodded. He tried to be aware of whatever danger they were in — Drummond certainly worried — yet part of his thoughts couldn’t help but wander off to another oddity. Why hadn’t Rolson noticed the open door leading to a room with witchcraft on the floor?

“What did you find, Mr. Porter? What little bit of Freeman’s history did you uncover that made him so mad?”

Drummond came in close behind Rolson. “You get what’s happening? This guy’s trying to pin the murder on you. Rich areas like this want their messy crimes cleaned up fast. He’s probably under a lot of pressure to find a murderer, and you’re the only one he’s got.”

“I told you the other day, I hadn’t seen Sebastian. He hired me, and I went to work, but I hadn’t really found anything yet.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” Rolson winked at Sandra as he walked back to the doorway. “I think you met him here while he worked an honest job, and you threatened to expose whatever you found out. I know you’re not doing well. Plus you lost plenty gambling. Probably lost it that way before. A little blackmail money might’ve been just the thing you two needed to get back on your feet.”

“That’s not true.”

“But Freeman refused to play along. He grew angry. Now, I’m not saying you killed him on purpose. This wasn’t a premeditated thing. No, I’ve seen enough heat-of-the-moment crimes in my time and this one’s a classic.”

Max stepped forward, and Rolson’s hand went underneath his jacket. Max froze. Rolson could have a gun or he could be bluffing. Either way it didn’t matter. Max wasn’t going to take the risk. Not with Sandra close enough to get clipped by accident.

Punctuating his words by pointing at the spot where the body had been found, Max said, “I did not kill Sebastian Freeman.”

Rolson pulled out a silver handgun. “Of course, you did. Raise your hands and turn around. Maxwell Porter, you are under arrest for the murder of Sebastian Freeman.” Sandra rushed to Max’s side, but Rolson raised his gun. “There, there, little lady. Take a few steps back or you’ll be spending time behind bars, too.”

As Max started to turn away, Rolson’s eyes bugged out and his mouth dropped. A second of confusion mixed with pain rushed across his face before he collapsed to the floor.

Drummond hurried over. “It wasn’t me. I swear.”

With his hands still in the air, Max stared at Rolson. “Is he dead? Did he have a heart attack?”

Sandra placed her fingers on Rolson’s neck. “He’s alive. And it didn’t look like a heart attack to me. I thought for sure Drummond had given him a hard chill.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Drummond said. “But I would’ve if things went any further.”

Max lowered his hands and stared at the magic painted on the floor of the secret room. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about him?” Sandra asked.

“I don’t know. I guess he’ll come after us when he wakes up. But we don’t want to be here, do we?”

“But then aren’t we fugitives?”

Drummond shooed her away from Rolson. “Both of you should go. Don’t worry about him coming after you. I promise you he won’t be knocking on your door in the morning.”

“But —”

“He wants to frame you for this murder, right? You go home and act normal. He can’t claim you were running from the law if you don’t really run. He still has to answer to his superiors, and not only would they wonder why you weren’t actually on the run but acting normal instead, they’ll want Rolson’s evidence in the case, and he’s got none. Here, he has you returning to the crime scene. He arrests you, you run and maybe he takes a shot, he says you confessed — something like that. Out of this house, he’s got nothing. Not yet, at least. So, get out of here and you’ll have bought a little time.”

Sandra looked to Max. “He’s right.”

“I know,” Max said. He saw the fear in her eyes and knew they only reflected his own fear.

Chapter 11

By the time Max and Sandra
had returned to their trailer, both were wired and unable to sleep. Every car that drove by sounded like the police. Max kept expecting the flashing lights and the short, sharp bursts of a siren followed by a knock at their door.

But nobody came. No car flashed its lights. They were left alone.

When day arrived with overcast gloom, Max decided to go to the library. “I’ve missed something important. I must have. Somewhere there’s got to be a journal or a diary or a news article — something about Baxter House or Freeman. There’s got to be.”

Sandra agreed. “I’ll help. We can double the chance of finding something.”

“Good idea. You go find what more you can on Sebastian, and I’ll —”

“I meant I’ll go to the library with you.”

Max paused. He knew a marriage minefield when he saw one. Closing his eyes as if praying, he said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Oh?” Sandra said, sounding like the click of a pressure switch.

“You’re right that you’d be a great help, but the library to me is a private place. My place. Drummond doesn’t even bother me there.”

“So I’d be bothering you?”

“Don’t twist what I say. Everybody has their little places of, I don’t know, sanctuary. The library is mine. You don’t need old books to find out what I’m asking of you. A laptop will do just fine. But I need the quiet, the feel, heck, the smell of a library as I’m going through diaries from a hundred-fifty years ago.”

Sandra kissed him. “I know. I’m just giving you hard time. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

As Max drove off for Wake Forest University, he thought about what he had said. He had never put it in such clear words for himself but it rang true. The library was his sanctuary — private and, in a way, holy.

Yet he had allowed Leon to join, to help in the research. Why him and not Sandra?

“I suppose,” Max said to the steering wheel as he drove over the speed bumps at the front of the University’s property, “Leon shares that pure love of research with me.” Could it be that simple? Leon understood a part of him that even his own wife failed to grasp — that research holds a Zen quality over him. It cleared the mind by letting all else drift away in order to focus on one task. At the same time, it reminded him of a puzzle, a mystery that demanded to be solved.

As he entered the library, he found it difficult to shed his uneasiness. The overcast day darkened the skylights and cast the entire library in a gloomy cloud. The rain would come soon, and the longer it waited, the worse it would be. Knowing that loomed over him felt like the growing pressure of knowing that Rolson had to be out there searching for some way to pin Sebastian’s murder on him.

“Then stop moping and get researching,” Max muttered and stomped upstairs to the Special Resources room.

He spent several hours looking through information about Baxter House and Sebastian Freeman, but what he could find (which did not amount to much) provided nothing new or useful. He needed to locate that one nugget which would clear his mind and let him see the situation in a fresh way. But after all the research he had done in the last few days, he knew he had found all that the library and the Internet could produce. An ugly sensation had formed in his gut, one that spelled the end for this job.

“No,” he whispered. That would be fine for a simple research project, but if he failed at this, he might be setting himself up for a jail sentence. “No
might
about it.”

Stretching his arms over his head, Max decided to start at the top of his resource list and go through each one again. This time, he would pay particular attention to the little details and side notes. He had to have missed something.

Less than twenty minutes later, he found a reference to a short story published in the early 1900s. Nothing odd about that, but since he wanted to focus on the small things he had ignored previously, Max decided to find the story and see what it was about. He wrote down the necessary information and went to the help desk.

“Hi, Max,” Leon said with a smile.

“Leon! I had no idea you were up here today.”

“I’m always here. Just about live here.” He chuckled. “I’m foolin’. Really I’m only filling in for a guy that got sick. This was supposed to be my day off. What can I do for you? You still looking into all that Sebastian Freeman stuff?”

“Yup. Found this, but I don’t know if it’s anything or not.” Max handed over the slip of paper with the book request.

“Well, let’s see what we see.”

Three minutes later, Leon returned empty-handed but smiling. “That story was published in
The New York World Sunday Magazine
and we don’t keep the originals anymore. But don’t worry, this is a library. We’re getting it all digitized now.”

“So, where can I read it?”

“Follow me.”

Leon brought Max to a computer terminal set up in a cubicle. A few taps at the keyboard, and the story appeared. Before Max sat next to Leon to read the piece, his heart jumped. On the screen he saw:

Kings of Dante

by Bill Sydney

for my friend, Cal Baxter

“Leon, this is what I’ve been looking for. Now, I’ve just got to find out who Bill Sydney is.”