Southern Belle (3 page)

"Then why all the secrecy from Drummond? If he was the one who helped you down here to begin with, shouldn't we warn him, maybe even elicit his help?"

Leed turned an incredulous eye toward Sandra. "Have you not taught him anything about ghosts?"

"What now?"

Sandra faced her husband. "I think he's referring to the idea that some ghosts can turn."

"Turn?"

With a frustrated huff, Leed said, "Just because Drummond resembles a human being, he's not. He's a ghost. And ghosts have their own set of rules. Supposedly, if you put them in highly stressful situations, ones that make them face their ghostly existence, and keep that pressure on long enough, they can turn into nasty, evil spirits."

"And this could happen to Drummond?"

"It can happen to any ghost. So, we can't trust him."

Max nodded — not because he agreed with Leed but rather because he could tell they had reached the crux of the whole story. "What exactly is it you want us to do?"

Wagging his index finger as if Max were an astute scholar, Leed said, "The witches are in an unusual state at the moment. They are not resting in their graves like most dead people nor are they wandering like most ghosts. They've neither moved on nor stayed behind. They are no longer cursed yet they are not free of the curse either. Since at least one of Dr. Ernest's graves has been disturbed, the only thing left for us to do is release the other corpses with a spell that should move them on to the next world while preventing them from rejoining their coven."

"Why didn't you use that spell to begin with?"

"I didn't know it back then. And by the time I learned, I had no way of using it. Dr. Ernest might have been able to be convinced to divulge his burial locations, but Marshall Drummond had been killed. Where he buried his witches is something I still don't know."

"Ah," Max said, getting to his feet. "You want us to find out Drummond's burial locations."

"Exactly. Find the burial locations and perform the spell. Otherwise, we'll have unleashed a powerful coven that will haunt Winston-Salem for centuries to come."

"Mr. Leed, I've done as you've asked. I've heard you out."

"And you'll take this case?"

"I'll look into it. See what I can find to back up your story."

Deflated, Leed put out his hand. "Of course. I shouldn't have expected more." As Max shook his hand, Leed gripped tight and yanked him close. "Just remember — under no circumstances can Drummond know what we're doing. I've dealt with evil spirits before. A ghost like Drummond becoming such a thing, losing all sense of right and wrong, would be catastrophic."

"Don't worry. We won't tell him." Max freed his hand from the old man, grabbed the newspaper, and headed to the door.

Chapter 3

The following morning, when Max thumped downstairs and shambled into the kitchen, a fragrant pot of coffee greeted him. He had slept little that night, his mind replaying the odd meeting with Leed hour after hour, which resulted in becoming intimately familiar with the textural variations along his ceiling. Sandra sat at their table eating over-easy eggs as she read over the newspaper article they had acquired from Leed.

With a piece of toast in her hand, she gestured to the coffee pot. "Not even a half-hour old."

"It could be ice cold, and I'd drink it."

"I didn't think you slept well. Leed get to you?"

Max nodded and poured the coffee into a mug that declared him to be a
#1 Husband!
"The thing that bothers me the most is that I don't doubt him at all. I'll check up on his story, but I have a feeling that Drummond was involved with him and this whole witch coven thing. And it all got me thinking how little we really know about Drummond."

"Don't do that. I know that look."

"What?"

"You're thinking about researching Drummond."

"So?"

"Honey, you do not want to go researching friends. It'll only lead to trouble. You know better. Real friendship is built on trust, and Drummond is a man —"

"Ghost."

"Fine, Drummond is a ghost that you need to trust. Think about the things we've faced with him already. We would never have survived half of it if we couldn't have trusted him."

Max sipped his coffee, wincing as he burned his tongue. "Okay, okay. I'll stick to Joshua Leed. But if I look into him, I'm going to find out things about Drummond by default. He's part of this."

"That's different. That's pursuing a case. Just don't go checking up on a friend."

Bending over the kitchen table, Max kissed his wife's forehead. "My guiding light to what is right. I'll stick to the case."

"Good." She turned her head up and puckered until Max kissed her lips. "How do you want to go about this?"

"I think I'll start with a shower."

"Good idea. You stink."

Max grinned. "Thank you."

"What's a wife for, if not to save you from embarrassing yourself in public?"

"My fragile ego and I are grateful. So, I'm going to clean up and go to the library at Wake. Find out what I can on this witch coven, see if it supports Leed's story. I think it will, but I've got to be sure."

"What can I do?"

Max rubbed Sandra's shoulders and cringed inwardly at what he planned to say. "I need you to spend the day watching Drummond."

"You want me to babysit the ghost?"

"I haven't been in the office since yesterday morning. That in itself shouldn't be too strange, but you know he still gets gut feelings, even if doesn't have a gut anymore. He might grow suspicious. If he breaks habit and risks going to a library to check up on me, I need you to call me, warn me."

"Is that why I'm getting a shoulder massage this morning?"

"I never said I was above bribery."

Sandra stood and faced Max with a devilish twinkle in her eye. "If you want me to spend my whole day with a ghost who loves hitting on me while reminiscing about his glory days, you'll have to do a lot better than that."

"What did you have in mind?"

She kissed Max hard. "Meet me upstairs. And remember, this one's all for me."

"All for you, my dear. All for you."

* * * *

Not surprisingly, Max had no trouble finding information about witches. Between the Internet and the library, he had more sources than he could possibly consume in a lifetime. But as he narrowed his search, first to North American witches, then to North Carolina witches, then to North Carolina witch covens, he found what he needed.

Like vampires, some form of witch existed in nearly every culture going back well before written history. In the modern world though, witches appeared to break down into two major groups.

The first focused on witchcraft as a religion of nature. Wicca was the major label, and they bore little resemblance to the witches of yore. These were kind, peaceful groups that aligned more with the Native American sensibility of the natural world as a living, breathing godly spirit than they did with spellcasters attempting to manipulate the world around them in some pact with evil.

The second group consisted of those who relished in the tales of old. Those that believed they could control others and tap into mystical powers. They were attracted to the darker elements of the lore and put on a pedestal people like Isobel Gowdie, a Scottish woman who, in 1662, confessed to being a witch and detailed out the practices of witches, first coining the term coven. Gowdie claimed to be able to metamorphose into various animals and gave specific instructions on how she accomplished this. Most modern non-believers considered her confession little more than the ravings of an extreme psychosis, but many practicing witches praised Gowdie as a bold martyr.

While the details of Max's research found much in conflict (one group thought their power derived from the moon, another focused on the healing properties within the Earth, and some groups took a modern bent on the whole thing — such as a motorcycle gang in England replacing witches' brooms with 500cc bikes), there were a few consistent aspects to all witch covens. They held the number thirteen sacred, and many covens limited membership to thirteen people. Members commonly called themselves Coveners and the leader usually took the title High Priestess or High Priest. Most interestingly, all covens produced a book called the Grimoire which detailed that group's specific rules, members, and rituals.

"You're all forgetting one group," Max said to the books he read. This group of witches he knew too well — the real witches. The people who controlled true magical power. They could curse a ghost or raise a spirit. Relieve a pain or cause a heartache. They had tapped into the true powers of the universe and knew how to wield them. He had met one amateur, Melinda Corkille, and one bona-fide witch, Dr. Connor, but that had been enough.

He had no doubt that Dr. Ernest, Joshua Leed, and Drummond believed the six women they killed and cursed were the remaining members of a powerful witch coven. The question Max had — what kind of witchcraft did they belong to? If they were a true coven, they would have had a Grimoire. And if they were amongst that third, unspoken category, then that Grimoire would be a dangerous book to get hold of. But Dr. Ernest and Leed must have done just that — how else would they have managed to identify and track the six down to North Carolina? Max found the story of knowing a guy at Sears & Roebuck on the lookout for bulk candle orders a bit too much to swallow.

He pulled up the browser on his laptop and stared at the keyboard. He wanted to type in the names — Ernest, Leed, and Drummond — but he kept hearing Sandra in the back of his head. He closed the laptop and rubbed his face.

He would find another way. He jotted down a few reminders of things he wanted to ask Leed, particularly about the Grimoire and the names of the witches they had killed. If he could locate an article about a missing girl with the same name from the week after they cursed the coven, that alone would make him feel better about Leed. Yet even as he wrote his notes, he had to shake his head. Whether he had intended to or not, his mind already acted as if he had taken on the case.

"Of course I'm taking this on. Drummond's involved."

As he looked up from his notebook, he caught sight of man sitting at a cubicle in the back corner — his old friend, Black Suit. Too tired to play the cloak and dagger game any longer, Max got up and strode right to the corner. To Black Suit's credit, he didn't attempt to escape. He waited as Max approached, set his jaw and crossed his arms.

"What is it you want?" Max asked in a low, bored tone. He had learned this technique from Drummond — under the right circumstance, affecting a nonchalant manner threatened far more than a dangerous tone. He hoped this was the right circumstance.

"You're a very interesting man, Mr. Porter." Black Suit had a smooth, easy voice — nonchalant even. Max felt a chill across his skin.

"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.